


Biological Clock

by OtakuElf



Series: Biological Clock [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Childbirth, Developing Relationship, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Gen, M/M, Parenthood, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-16
Updated: 2014-04-06
Packaged: 2017-12-20 08:15:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 45
Words: 108,550
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/885029
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OtakuElf/pseuds/OtakuElf
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Actions have consequences.  Some that even a genius cannot foresee, let alone John.  But then, Sherlock can't always predict how John will react, either.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Question

**Author's Note:**

> I am interested in hearing what people think. Let me know about typos, errors in logic, things you don't think are accurate. Thank you for reading.
> 
> Also? Not British. If you find some colloquialisms are incorrect, please let me know. 
> 
> And thank you very much to my beta, Lunamoth116!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to Lunamoth116 for beta-ing in a retroactive fashion.

A tiny hand curled around the doctor’s latex-gloved finger. It was instinct, putting it within the baby’s reach while the other arm cradled the small new life.

“Making a wish?” That was Sarah.

John Watson turned slightly to smile at his supervisor. “This is Padma. Padma, meet Sarah. She’s trying to tell me my biological clock is ticking.”

This earned a giggle from Mrs. Patel, who reached to receive the child with the expertise of a mother of three. A deep voice came from the doorway: “Why would a biological clock stop ticking? Would that not mean John is dead?”

The doctors exchanged looks, mostly amused, before Sarah belatedly informed John, “Your flatmate is here.”

John peeled off gloves, nodded farewell to Mrs. Patel, and washed his hands thoroughly. “Something up, Sherlock?”

“Mycroft,” the detective said as he moved out of the doorway, “has some issue of great importance to share with us both.”

“He texted you instead of sending a car round to kidnap us?” John rubbed his hands and arms dry to the elbow.

A corner of Sherlock’s mouth quirked up, as he mentioned, “The car is waiting outside.”

In the black car - with both men taking up a luxurious amount of space compared to their usual cab seating - the question was repeated: “What was the meaning of Sarah’s comment?”

John grinned sideways, informing his taller flatmate, “Sarah was intimating that I am feeling pressured by my biology to reproduce.”

A pause, then: “Sarah was inferring that because you were holding the child after the examination was complete?”

John shrugged. Sarah was saying it because of so many things. They had tried a relationship again after Sherlock had “died”. It had not gone well. As Sarah had told John after a month of dating: “Before, I had to compete with your flatmate. Now I’m up against your feelings for a dead man. There may have been nothing sexual going on with you and Sherlock, but your emotions are still invested, John. You are not going to have any real relationship, let alone a wife and family, until you deal with that.”

Finally, the blond doctor spoke. “It’s just something people say, Sherlock. Usually to women. Harry used to loathe it. She said it upset Clara. Doesn’t calm Harry any either, when people say it to her. And they do.”

Sherlock’s silence was of the considering kind, not brooding. John gave the consulting detective space for his thoughts. His own were enough to capture attention from the streets of London flashing by. Children. John had assumed years ago that he would eventually meet a woman, fall in love, marry, create a family. His own children, a son, a daughter - and now unmarried John found himself smiling. He would not have to panic anytime soon at the words, “I’m pregnant!” He counted himself lucky that “Three Continents Watson” had never had to dodge that particular unexpected bullet.

“That phrase -” Sherlock’s distinctive voice broke into John’s thoughts “- would be specifically offensive if I were to say it, for example, to Sergeant Donovan, wouldn’t it?”

John blinked, mind still stuck on “I’m pregnant”. “Oh!” No, the biological clock, that was it. “Yes. Yes, it would be offensive, Sherlock. Might get you a reprimand for harassment.”

“Would it?” That got attention. Head cocked, Sherlock asked, “When commenting on her affair with Anderson has not?”

“Yeah, well...” John was uncertain about how to explain. “It’s a bit personal.”

Now Sherlock’s focus was fully on John. “How would a comment on reproductive viability be more offensive than obvious scorn over her choice of Anderson as a sexual partner?”

A deep breath, and how long was this ride going to take? John took on the question. “Your observations about her affair are in response to her comments, her name calling. Not sure how you both started that, but it’s a bit of a give and take between you. Sally’s used to it. Expand it to include something so personal as her body, and the balance will tip into trouble.”

“Not good?” The deep, questioning voice was humorous.

“No!” John agreed severely.

“And if I were to say it to a male? Lestrade, or perhaps Dimmock?”

John thought about how to explain it for a second. “I don’t think it would get much of any response normally. Men don’t think the same way, Sherlock. Lestrade might feel offended, but that would be in part because of his wife being unfaithful. Do you know if he has any children?”

Sherlock looked surprised at the question and shook his head. “None of which I am aware. You know Lestrade better than I do.”

“Then,” John said strongly, “don’t say it to Greg.”

“Hmmm.” Sherlock considered. There was silence for the rest of the trip.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Updated with the beta-ed version January 16, 2014.


	2. Documentation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please let me know if I have made errors in Britspeak. Thank you.

John - accustomed to Sherlock’s constant hyper motion - ran smack into the tall man’s back blocking the doorway. That, and his flatmate’s expectant posture when seated, gave the doctor a modest number of clues that something out of the ordinary was going on. Sherlock leaning forward in the leather chair, fingers together and eyes trained on Mycroft behind the desk, made that difficult to miss. John had followed the consulting detective to the chairs and took his own seat, eyes scanning the room. He’d been here before, in this sanctuary of polished wood. Even the handle of Mycroft’s inevitable umbrella was a rich, fine-grained wood, contrasting with the dark, mirrored sheen of the desk.

Ah. Mycroft was calm, so far as John could read, but his umbrella was lying neatly, perfectly, fanatically aligned with the edge of the desk. “The files,” the elder brother said, as his personal assistant began to lay out piles of folders on the conference table behind them.

This earned Mycroft a glance from Sherlock, who scanned the labels, and chose three smaller files from the top of the pile to the left. John began by running his fingers along the labels, reading numbers and letters mixed in blocks on the covers. “Medical files?” John’s muttered comment was without thought as he chose a folder at random and opened it. “In vitro fertilisation?” Dragging the leather chair across the carpet to the table, the doctor began to read in earnest.

John had worked his way through the first pile: all women who were serving as surrogates, carrying the fertilized embryos to term, apparently for pay. He stopped to look at his flatmate. Sherlock had moved his chair as well, but was slouching in it, long legs stretched out under the table, fingers steepled in front of his face. The three slim files he had chosen were sitting on the table in front of him. “You have all of the data you need?” John looked back at the piles of information.

“Clogging my memory with the irrelevancies of each individual case in these files would serve no purpose, John,” the detective replied thoughtfully.

“You are mistaken,” Mycroft spoke from behind his desk. “You are missing something.”

Head whipping round, Sherlock glared coldly at his brother. Holding out a familiarly imperious hand to John, he received the last one John had read and began paging through the leaves. “Ah!” His eyes flicked from Mycroft to John’s face, then back down to the photograph stapled to the back of the folder. Standing, the tall detective placed the file, folded with the photograph on top, at the far edge of the table. Snatching up the nearest folder, that photograph went next to the first. John had the consequent opened to the photograph, and followed through on each folder in the pile in front of him. There were a number of the slimmer files that Sherlock stacked aside, but he and John went through every other folder, until the tabletop was a mass of faces. John realized after a short while that Sherlock was sorting the pictures. Those on the right-hand side of the table were all brunettes, tall and slender with roundish faces. To the left were shorter women, all similar as well, but with sand-coloured blonde hair.

“Why -” he asked the air, expecting to hear from the Holmes brothers how much of an idiot he was “- do they all look related? The surrogates? Well, those on the left look related to each other, and those on the right could be kin. Why would it matter what the surrogates look like?”

“Did you notice the number identifying the sperm donor?” Sherlock did not look at John.

Well, then, John had to go and look back through all of the files again. “They’re all the same number. And there are sixteen numbers for the egg donors. Eight for each type of surrogate. I mean, eight for the blondes, and eight for the brunettes.”

Sherlock sat up, took up the pile of files in front of him, shuffled through them, and handed the remaining stack to John, who opened them to the photograph in the back. Halfway through there was a shout, and the other folders dropped to the floor, leaving John holding one.

“Harry!”

Looking at Sherlock accusingly, John shouted, “Did you know one of the egg donors was Harry?”

“I had surmised that she might well be. She was not one of the two that I read through.” Sherlock was back to his thinking pose. A quick look from under his brow, then he turned to face John. “John, surely you have noticed something similar about the blonde women serving as surrogates?”

“They all look alike,” John said, “and they look like eight of the egg donors. Including Harry.”

There was a heavy sigh from Sherlock, and a clicking noise from behind them where Mycroft labored at his huge polished wood desk. “John, what color hair? What color eyes? Describe them.”

John knew he looked blank, but could not understand what it was that Sherlock - and apparently Mycroft, for that matter - saw. “Blonde, not bright blonde. Sand-coloured hair. Blue eyes. Short. All these women are shorter than the brunettes. So they have a type. Why would Harry be in this? Her file dates are years older than the rest of these women. My sister’s hair is brown, not blonde.”

“Sherlock,” Mycroft groaned, “the w.c. is through the door.”

Confused, but not protesting, John was dragged from his seat and pulled to the water closet, where Sherlock put steady hands on his friend’s shoulders and set the doctor in front of the mirror. John saw himself in the looking glass: sand-coloured blond hair, blue eyes, shorter than Sherlock, who was peering at his expression in the glass from over John’s shoulder. “Oh.”

“Yes, John,” Sherlock mocked. “‘Oh.’”

Pushing his way back out of the small room, John glared at Mycroft. “Where did you get these folders?”

“These are some of the files from Moriarty’s criminal conglomerate. A medical research company that was involved in a number of highly illegal and unethical procedures and experiments,” Mycroft said as he raised an eyebrow.

John suppressed the urge to vomit. “Was the sperm donor Moriarty?” he asked in a sickly voice.

The deep voice behind him was holding a laugh as it replied, “No, John. I am the donor.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to Lunamoth116 for beta-ing retroactively!


	3. Reaction

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, Lunamoth116 for retroactively checking this chapter!

The fine bone china cup in his hand was burning hot with tea. The milk had not cooled it by any great amount, and John could feel the heat even through the handle. John found himself concentrating on unimportant thoughts; he could see light through the thinness of the cup, the paper cut from handling the folders burned, and the saucer had a small pool of sloshed darjeeling that begged to be sipped up loudly in this refined atmosphere. Why did he care? Caring was not an advantage. Certainly Mycroft and Sherlock did not have this overly emotional reaction. Anthea was robot-like in her affect, distant as always. The assistant had provided them with the tea as efficiently as she had placed the startling and disturbing files before them.

Sherlock, sitting across the room, a full teacup on the table by him, was thinking. His steepled fingers were in front of his lips, and his pale eyes were watching John. Mycroft read his way through computer files at his large desk, ignoring them both so far as John could see. Not that the doctor believed Mycroft was unaware of exactly what both he and Sherlock were doing at every moment.

There was noise. The quiet of a soundproofed office hummed with four human beings thinking. The clicking of Anthea’s perfectly mauve nails on her PDA and the rustle of clothing on bodies shifting in their leather-covered seats was not loud, but definitely present. Right now John reached for emotion, and discovered relief. Relief that whatever mindgames Moriarty had been playing before he died, his DNA was not dancing around in those embryos making a person with Harry’s code. A sip of the hot, milky liquid and John took a deep breath. Time to be the grown up. Time to be the boring generic moral man caught between these two amoral geniuses.

“So,” he started, looking up to find said geniuses watching him with expectant faces, “the tea is lovely, Anthea. Any biscuits?”

Sherlock’s evil grin told John what he needed to know. As Anthea brought a plate of assorted _Petits Gâteaux_ the short doctor asked casually, “What exactly did you bet, Mycroft?”

“It was,” the auburn-haired man said stiffly, “a gentleman’s bet.”

John nodded. “Shall we take it as read that I will fight to protect Sherlock’s children? Even from you? None of these babies will end up in any place like Baskerville!” The Holmes brothers shared a smug look at the correct anticipation of John’s reaction. John did not care. “You, of course, want Sherlock’s assistance with some part of this. I will let you get to your negotiating eventually, but I am curious. This was Moriarty? Or not?” John waved a hand to include all of Mycroft’s office, looking at its owner meaningfully.

Mycroft examined him narrowly. “You sell yourself short, Doctor Watson. It is quite possible that I wish to have your opinion regarding this situation rather than Sherlock’s. You are, after all, a medical man, and up to date on your medical ethics, as well as personal ones. Sherlock describes you as his ‘moral flatmate’.” Sherlock raised an eyebrow at that, but did not interrupt. “However,” Mycroft continued, “this is indeed one of Moriarty’s games. If I were making plans to perpetuate the Holmes line it would be with a different set of parameters on the female lineage, and a much better sample of genetic material from our side of it. A sample taken before Sherlock’s flirtation with biochemistry.”

John blinked, certain he had been insulted. Electing against taking offense for now, he said briskly, “Right then. I am, of course, concerned about the surrogates. I am concerned about your plans for the children.” He emphasized that last word, knowing that both Holmes’s were liable to be thinking of the growing foetuses as "embryos". He also knew they would discount this opinion as sentimentality. “But I don’t understand the point of Moriarty’s -“ “experiment” seemed the wrong word, very wrong in any manner “- game. Why now? Moriarty died over two years ago. Why not before he started the Richard Brook campaign? I would like to know what madness Moriarty had planned for them - the children - because I cannot picture it...” The doctor’s voice trailed off.

“You did see him die, Sherlock? You told me he put a gun in his mouth and blew the top of his head off. There was no mistake?” John’s voice hitched as his hand jinked in tremor, spilling more tea.

“Our bodies were plastered against each other, John. It was a ghastly imitation of intimacy. There was no mistake. He killed himself to force me to die. I was to commit suicide or lose you, Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade to the snipers.” Familiar words, oft-repeated in that distinctive voice, and not what John wanted to think about now. There had been grief enough, and to spare. And anger also, when Sherlock had reappeared.

“Doctor Watson -” Mycroft started, only to be interrupted by his brother. “John, Moriarty is dead. Dead! Dead! Dead!” Sherlock brought his hands down and looked across the room to meet John’s gaze. John took a deep breath, fighting down his urge to pound or shoot. “John, I need you. What I need you to do now is conduct light. Tell us what you see.”

“Yeah. Right.” John rubbed his face, then sat up. “This is what I see.” He looked directly at Sherlock as he spoke. “Moriarty paid someone to impregnate all of these women in some sort of mad game to see - what? The viability of short blond people of Scottish descent versus tall, dark children of Irish family? It couldn’t be that he was testing to see which would survive in utero. That doesn’t make sense. What was he planning for the babies once they were born? They weren’t to stay with the surrogates. The psychological profiles are for the limited term, for their reactions and the probability of fewer emotional complications during pregnancy, not child rearing. What was he planning?” John stood, placing the cup and saucer on the table before going on, “Why would they continue without him, since he was dead? If he was really, truthfully dead? Evidence, Mycroft said. What if Moriarty hired Richard Brook that whole time, then blamed Sherlock?”

“Curious thought, John. Not correct though.” Was there emotion coloring Mycroft’s words?

Sherlock took up the thread. “Richard Brook was a complete fabrication. No history that went beyond what was planted in reach of Kitty Riley. Even the name was taken from ‘Reichenbach’. Moriarty, however, had a history, a background, which we now have. We know that his father was a mathematics professor. That he may have killed his parents and siblings, a younger sister and an elder one. They are certainly dead as well. And yes, he went to school with Carl Powers. His first murder victim.”

“Why,” John wondered aloud, “would Moriarty combine Watson genetics with Holmes’, when he consistently compared me to a dog, identified me as your pet? What sort of comparison was he making? Of course, Mycroft, you wouldn’t have wanted Harry’s DNA.” John’s grin was cold as he commented, “I understand that these are supposed to be me. I get that now that you’ve both pointed it out. The ‘dark side’ -” John put quotation marks in the air, knowing that neither Holmes would understand the reference “- the brunettes, all look like Moriarty, and they’re all of Irish heritage. Are any of them actually related to that madman?”

Mycroft shook his head. “We have DNA samples from before and after Moriarty’s death. None of the women who provided eggs are connected. None of the surrogates are related. Both of his sisters died years ago of rather suspicious food poisoning, and there is no other family. Harry is the only, shall we say, coincidence?”

“As Sherlock says, there are no coincidences.” That was put quite bitterly. “Harry’s eggs were the only ones from before this past year. She must have sold them a decade ago when she was at uni. Still, you told us before that Irene Adler was dead. ‘DNA evidence’, you said.”

“Irene Adler is the reason why we are certain that Moriarty’s dead, John.” Was Mycroft attempting to be comforting? “New procedures were put into place because of Ms. Adler. This is why we are more certain of the samples. _None of the women who provided eggs are connected. None of the surrogates are related._ Not to each other, nor Moriarty, nor Ms. Adler, by the way. Harry is the only woman who has a link.”

John was not one who paced, normally. He stood, thinking. “Since Moriarty’s opponent was not always Sherlock, is it possible that this game was aimed at you, Mycroft?”

Mycroft was silent, speculating, and John imagined gears moving, or computer circuits flashing bits of light as when the neurons in a brain fired. “Highly unlikely, John. It is possible that he was planning on bringing these children out to declare them as Sherlock’s children. Or mine, for that matter. There would have been nothing accomplished by doing so. Sherlock simply would not care. Those who know him would be extremely surprised at children popping up, and after the mass of apologies published after his return it could be attributed to crazed stalkers. My position would be...largely unaffected. Surprise babies are no longer the social or governmental explosive they once were. To the majority of the world I am a minor worker within the British government. To my superiors I am a resource they would not be able to manage without.”

Sherlock spoke thoughtfully, “John, did you notice the timing? When Moriarty began this rather cumbersome work of art?”

It took a moment, and then John was searching for dates in the files. “This date -” he started. Sherlock finished, “The date the Initiative, as he calls it, was begun was the day after The Pool.” 

John swallowed, then his forehead furrowed. “Does this have to do with you telling him ‘Catch you later’?”

That wide smile, the one that made him smile back, appeared, and Sherlock’s tone was warm. “No, Moriarty knew I would be going after him. This was more, I believe, because of you. What better way to burn my heart out than to go after those who mattered most to me? Though I confess that I have no idea why he would combine our genetics in such a bizarre fashion.”

“I wonder...” John sparked a thought. “If...when...he discovered the information about Harry? That she had sold her eggs to that particular corporation. Or if it was to that company. Did he have to purchase them from someone else?”

Clicking, clattering, then Anthea spoke: “This information was listed in the background check we did of Harriet Watson when the doctor moved into 221B Baker Street. The medical research facility is listed as the company that deposited money into H. Watson’s account.”

Mycroft took time to pour himself a cup of tea. “If we knew this, then it is entirely possible that Moriarty did as well. Indeed, considering the depth of his interest in Sherlock, it is probable that he would research your family, John. I expect he did the same for Mrs. Hudson and Detective Inspector Lestrade, as they were chosen targets. You, however, would come under higher scrutiny after the events at the Pool.”

John leaned against the table, pushing back the paperwork at the edge, careful not to nudge his tea. “He took the opportunity. Seized it. But after he died, was it Moran who kept ‘the Initiative’ going?”

“The signature on every one of these files is ‘Culverton Smith’. No title or degree indicated,” Sherlock pointed out.

“Mr. Smith is not one of the people in custody at this moment.” Mycroft’s response was bland. “We would very much like to speak with him on a number of matters, including this highly illegal transaction.”

“Is there anything in Moriarty’s records to indicate what he planned to do with the babies once they were born?” John wondered why Sherlock was allowing him to ask all the questions.

Mycroft’s grin reminded John vaguely of a shark. So did his voice as he pointed out, “There are references to ‘Sherlock’s beautiful babies’, and a list of families seeking adoption, along with notes on their intelligence and suitability.”

“Moriarty’s definition of ‘suitable’ is questionable, and surely not going to be in conjunction with -” Sherlock paused as though seeking an adequate comparison “- for example, John’s.”

That got John’s attention. “Would it be in conjunction with yours, Sherlock?”

Sherlock made a face. ”Certainly not.”

John scrutinized him. Sherlock rolled his eyes. “John, even theorizing before data I can tell you that I would be more likely to consider the childrens’ -” he quickly, seamlessly corrected “- the embryos’ physical welfare than Moriarty’s. And once born, children, for the most part, tend to get on well with me. If they’re well-trained to be inquiring, and don’t behave like their parents. Children have a natural curiosity that tends toward acceptance of any behavior that their parents would consider ‘odd’. You’re thinking that Moriarty got this idea at The Pool. He started the wheels turning for his ‘Initiative’ soon after that.” Paging through several of the files, he nodded. “It took time for him to make this plan, and more to set it in action. Interviewing and researching the potential donors, the surgeons and staff necessary, the surrogates. Which is why the surrogates are currently six months pregnant instead of having delivered or being further along. Where are the surrogates now?”

“They are being housed in dormitories on-site. In itself, the idea of sixty pregnant women, all at the same stage of pregnancy and due to go into labor at the same time, encourages observation.” Mycroft glanced at his brother before continuing. “If only from a human behavioral science point of view. The logistics of the entire affair are staggering.”

Sherlock was keying his phone. “Thirty percent fertilization rate for human eggs. No, just for frozen eggs, and the only ones of those were Harry’s. The other donors would have a significantly higher fertilization rate. Where are the records for the surrogates who did not have successful implantation?”

Mycroft looked at Anthea, who answered without looking up from her BlackBerry. “In storage. Those were labeled ‘closed’ and housed separately from these files.”

“Are they still alive?” John asked in alarm.

Anthea looked up finally and stared at him. “Yes. The women have been released. The corporation gave them a severance pay to make up for not carrying an embryo to term. Their interviews are available if you wish to read them.”

Sherlock sat up. “You have read them?”

“Yes.”

“Were they interviewed by Moriarty or by Culverton Smith?”

“Smith,” Anthea answered. “Nothing in the interviews leads us to Smith. The transcripts were edited to include only information pertaining to health and childbirth. Their psychological profiles were extremely similar to the case files on the table. Which is why they were not included with the others.”

“Sixty women carrying your children, Sherlock.” John sounded stunned as the information finally struck true.

The detective raised an eyebrow at the doctor, asking, “Have I surpassed ‘Three Continents’ Watson in a sexual endeavour? Astonishing. What odd nickname would be appropriate?”

His friend grinned cheekily back. “I still haven’t heard how Moriarty got hold of your half of the genetic mix.”

“It was for a case, John.” Sherlock sounded irritated. “I infiltrated a sperm bank, apparently owned by Moriarty’s corporation.”

“In the guise of a donor?” John began to laugh.

“It seemed appropriate at the time.” Sherlock had not much else to say.

John was still laughing. “Tell me you solved the case?”

“Yes.” It was short, clipped.

“You’re not going to tell me all about how your great intellect solved the case?” John teased.

A sigh, then a snort. “It was stupidly simple. They were selling organs through a connected company. Their data was stored on the same server. No great intellect needed. If the police had used their eyes, let alone their brains, it might never have come to me.”

Mycroft coughed, then commented, “This came to you through a civil complaint, did it not?”

Sherlock waved that aspect away. “As for the foetuses being mine, I signed away all legal rights to them when I donated the sample. As Harry did for the eggs she sold.”

“Which brings us to the disposal of the infants.” Mycroft was watching John as he perched on the table edge.

“Disposal?” John jerked upright and looked at him quickly as he asked, “In what way?”

Mycroft tilted his head. “I had thought to put the babies up for adoption. The surrogates have no claim to them once their contract to delivery is fulfilled. Thirty of the babies will be from what you referred to as ‘the dark side’, while thirty-three of them, including the three sets of twins, are from what I suppose would be ‘the light side’.”

Relief, and John slumped. “I expect adoption is best. To normal families? No Baskerville?”

“Of course not, John. I am not a monster. The prospective parents will be thoroughly vetted. Sherlock’s name will, of course, be on the birth certificate as father. The egg donor’s name will be listed as mother. Their records will be sealed from casual inspection, though available for medical usage.”

Dr. Watson nodded. Then Mycroft asked with an astonishing amount of hesitation, “I would like for you to be involved in oversight of this project, Dr. Watson. Perhaps to give you assurance that there would be no issue with the births and adoptions.”

“Me?” John was shocked. “How would I be in any way appropriate?”

The short, blond man jumped at the hand placed on his arm. “Mycroft is asking for your assistance, John,” said Sherlock. “Give it some thought, and give him an answer when you’ve decided.”

“Yeah, right. Okay.” John nodded. As one of Mycroft’s black cars drove them back to 221B Baker Street, the doctor had much to think about.


	4. Home

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, Lunamoth116 for betaing!

Home: it was not just a series of rooms above Speedy’s. Home was London. Home was Bart’s, the clinic, Baker Street, and increasingly again, NSY. Home was people. Mrs. Hudson, Sarah at the clinic, Greg Lestrade at NSY, and Sherlock - those were John’s home. It was sad when Harry was no longer included, John thought as he walked from the clinic to join Sherlock at their rooms in Baker Street. He was enjoying the people in passing. Living with the consulting detective had changed him. John looked now. He _observed_. Of course, while he offhandedly noticed things about the men and women around him, he was distracted with thoughts of Mycroft’s request.

What was Mycroft thinking when he asked John to help him? Seriously, there were far more qualified people to advise the man than John, even though John was a doctor, and a darn good one too! Of course, John did like the idea of keeping his eye on exactly what they were doing. Some things needed prevention. And John admitted that he was nosy. Though how would John stop an action that he found immoral? Who was John to speak on morality, considering, well, many things? Shooting Mycroft would not help. 

John had earned a little goodwill from the press, and from the public who had, after the fact, cheered him for his championing of Sherlock, even through the bad days of his trial by press and death. It was possible - not even improbable - that he would be able to use that bit of infamy and public support to put a stopper in…in what? Mycroft had told John he was willing to do the right thing by these children. There was also the Official Secrets Act, and all the lovely paperwork involved in that.

Which led to John wondering what insanity Moriarty had planned for them. Wearily, John was giving thanks that the man was dead, when he heard music that distracted him from the spike of anxiety. Violin, obviously Sherlock, playing from the open windows of 221B. Beautiful. Not something John had heard him play before. A song that was vaguely familiar, not a concert piece and not the dissonant scraping that the man played when distracted or distraught. Was music part of Sherlock’s home? John rather thought it was as he fit his key into the lock. Out of the corner of his eye he caught sight of a car pulling up to the kerb; black, long, one of Mycroft’s vehicles. Hmmm. Were those cars part of Mycroft’s home? Or was Anthea? Was Sherlock?

Turning, he watched the driver opening a door for Mycroft himself. There would be no kidnapping today, apparently. John saw recognition, emotion in Mycroft’s face as he walked to the doorstep. The tall, thin man’s umbrella hung loose as he directed his eyes to the windows, curtains billowing as music poured into the street. They stood, the government official and the doctor, listening. “What is it, Mycroft?” John asked.

The reply was barely audible. “A song our mother used to sing. A French carol that _Grand-mère_ taught Mummy when she was a girl.” And then there was no speaking until the song finished. Sherlock, above them in their rooms, began another. Debussy; John recognized it from ages ago in school. Also a French piece. John tried to recall other French composers. Saint-Saëns? Everyone knew _Carnival of the Animals_. He was unable to recall hearing Sherlock play Debussy before, or any other French composer. Of course, Sherlock’s repertoire was far larger than John’s knowledge of classical music, even with the education that living with the man ground into one’s consciousness.

They stood together, the two men from such varied backgrounds, not just hearing, but listening to the sounds from the violin. A horn sounded in the street, a pedestrian was cursing at a cab - distracting noises, all of them. Mycroft gave his attention back to John, saying, “I fear this is not a good time for a visit. I had come to hear if you’ve made a decision regarding the requested assistance?”

“Yes,” John said, realizing it was true. “I’ll do it.”

Mycroft nodded. “Good. I will be in touch with more details.”

“Would you like to come up for tea?” The offer was more genuine than it had been for some time.

“No.” Mycroft essayed a smile, not a false or simply polite one. He offered, “Not today, I think. You will be hearing from me.”

The man folded himself back into his black car, and was driven off. John watched as long as he could see the automobile before it was lost in traffic. Turning the key in the lock, John went in.


	5. A Discussion of Finer Points

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As you might have noticed, I am going through and reviewing the older chapters with the help of my beta reader, Lunamoth116. My thanks to her for the patience and red pen!

Sherlock continued to play, drawing the bow smoothly across the violin strings as John hung up his jacket. The room was dark. Winter sunlight from the windows spread across a metal stand spread with sheets and books of music. “Mycroft,” that deep voice intoned without turning. “What did my brother want?”

“He asked if I had made a decision.” John headed for the kitchen, asking, “Tea?”

“Yes.” Sherlock might not drink much of it, but he did like for John to make it for him. The Debussy began again. Carrying two mugs of tea, one white and one sweet, John brought them through with an elderly package of Jaffa Cakes under his arm. Setting Sherlock’s mug within his reach, John settled himself into his chair and allowed his tired muscles to relax. He took a sip of tea. Just a mouthful of the stuff in the comfort of his chair, here at 221B, brought a feeling of satisfaction. Sherlock stopped his bow to reach for his own tea. John could feel the focus, the weight of Sherlock’s attention lowering upon him. “How was your day, John?”

That, if nothing else, set off - well, not an alarm, but the understanding that John needed to wake up and pay attention. “Vaccinations, a broken leg, a round of head colds, and Mrs. Goldsmith is getting married again.” _Why do you ask?_ was on the tip of the doctor’s tongue, but he elected instead to ask, “What was that piece you were playing before the Debussy?”

A small smile - not quite shy, more pleased - brought the corner of Sherlock’s mouth up. ”You recognized the Debussy, John? Bravo! Can you name it beyond the composer?”

John thought, shook his head. He was perfectly willing to admit his ignorance on some things, and it did not hurt to stroke his flatmate’s ego at times. “What is it?”

Sherlock’s smile turned wicked, knowing exactly what John was about. “ _La Mer_ ,” he spoke in enviable French.

For a moment John’s mental translation - French was not his best language - was “the mother”, _mere_ , but Sherlock was already following his words: “ _The Sea_.”

Ah. Well. Too many mother references lately, John supposed. Mycroft’s and Sherlock’s “Mummy”, the surrogates. John had not thought much about his own parents, gone for some time now. Harry looked like their father, John more like Mum. The music had not restarted, and John looked up to find Sherlock watching him. “ _Un flambeau, Jeannette, Isabelle_.” The man’s French pronunciation was splendid so far as John could tell.

“What?” Confused, John almost spilled his tea, before replying to his own question: “Oh, the song.”

“English translation is most commonly, ‘Bring a Torch, Jeanette, Isabela’.” Sherlock was still examining John as he went on, “Mummy used to sing it to us. A Christmas carol that she learned from her mother.”

John took a sip. “Mycroft seemed touched by it.” The doctor smiled.

“However did you survive that, John?” Sherlock’s comment was an invitation to laugh.

John grinned. “Well, you know. Survived invading Afghanistan and all.” Then John spoke a thought as it appeared in his head: “Do you sing? You have that, well, that incredible voice.”

Sherlock raised surprised eyebrows. “Not commonly. Do you?”

“Yeah, well...” John took another sip of tea. “For fun. Christmas carols. Hymns at church, that sort of thing.”

“Church?” Sherlock’s tone was questioning, startled, but not exactly shocked. “I had not thought you particularly religious, John.”

John took in another mouthful of tea. “Not religious, but faithful. I don’t need to wear jewelry to know what is right or wrong, now, do I? Personal thing. Don’t attend much.” And then a smile. “Comfortable enough to ask, ‘Please, God, let me live...’”

The shock was quickly over. “And you believe you were answered?”

“Wasn’t sure for a while. The bedsit wasn’t exactly living, was it?” A cheeky grin in response, followed by, “What is it that you want to ask me to do, Sherlock?”

“I want to raise one of the children from Moriarty’s little ‘Initiative’.” The totally unexpected statement was said steadily, watching John for his response.

“No. God, no.” John could not have been more emphatic, and it was blasphemy, not a prayer.

“John.” Sherlock leaned forward, his tone earnest. “This is an opportunity that will never be available again!”

“No! Just no, Sherlock! Bloody hell, no! The idea is so far wrong that I can’t conceive of why you would think it was going to occur!” John’s voice rose steadily. “I can give you chapter and verse as to why this is never going to happen!”

The tall man nodded, settling on the sofa with his mug of tea and learning back. John stared. “Continue,” Sherlock said as he nodded again.

“Continue?” John asked, incredulous.

Sherlock’s face showed polite interest. “The chapter and verse. Tell me your objections?”

John did. In detail, with many words that the doctor did not use in polite company nor in everyday conversation. He attempted, at least in the beginning, to remain calm and give reasonable statements that included examples from their experiences together. Sherlock watched his flatmate quietly. John found himself becoming agitated by the lack of reaction, and grew louder and more vociferous. It was not until the shorter man realized he was about to repeat himself that what had become a tirade stopped in an uncomfortable silence.

Sherlock took a long drink of tea before placing the empty mug on the floor by the sofa. Standing, he looked at John, nodded yet again, and began to pace, speaking quickly and quietly, with the brisk descriptions he used when detailing how he had discovered the facts in a criminal case. “You have many reasons, valid reasons I admit, arguing against my raising a child, any child, let alone one of the children for which you have made yourself responsible.

”But hear me out, John, please. You are concerned about my drug use. You are afraid that boredom will take hold of me. That I will start shooting the wall, which had it coming by the way.” There was a quirk of a smile there. John did not smile in return. Sherlock started again with a frown: “The drug use to deal with boredom, to calm my mind - like any other addiction it must be taken step by step, day by day. It does not preclude any other human being from being a father. You as a doctor know that it is possible to put addiction behind, not as though it has never been, but to live with the desire day to day and move past it. Being a good father requires that I abstain from drug use. Being your friend required it long before that, and I have taken that, as I have said, day by day. It is a matter of habit. Habit can be changed. There will be danger nights, but...I am aware of what you have done for me in the past, John.

”Boredom will come. I am aware that raising a child will contain repetitive behaviours. You ask what happens when I become bored with the baby. Do you expect that I will discard the child when I stop being interested in it? Have I become bored with The Work? Bored with the lack of work, yes, but there is always work to be done with caring for another. Have I discarded the violin, John? I have played it since I was four. I compose. And although I may become bored, I do not misuse my instrument. I care for it.

”Your chief and immediate concern was that I undertake this as an experiment. That I would be unfit to raise a human being because you fear my indiscriminate prodding of a child. You cite Baskerville, and my attempt to drug you. That I would drug you, my sole friend, does not bode well for other human beings who are not of importance. I have deceived you in the past. And we had, I thought, worked our way through your anger, and my apologies. You know...” Sherlock dropped his head, taking his eyes away from John’s. “That I promised not to lie to you, or experiment on you again. Would you say that I have broken that promise?”

John kept his eyes on that dark, bowed head. “No. I would say that you have kept your word, Sherlock. But...”

Sherlock nodded. ”Would you say that I am in the habit of breaking my word to you?”

“No,” John admitted. “Not when you actually give it.”

“Keep that in mind, please. Now, you know that I am not in the habit of forming attachments. Not easily, and not often.” Sherlock was calm. “It is one of your main points as to why I am not fit to raise a child. Although it is, in point of fact, true that parents do not always attach to their children in a healthy manner, if at all.”

John nodded in agreement. Sherlock went on, “In addition you point out that I am notoriously bad at regular meals, sleep, and behaviour. I lose myself in The Work. These are all true. I can, however, sit for hours on an experiment, keeping track of hours and changes in a medium to the point of fanaticism. It is possible for me to keep track of regularly scheduled hours for food and sleep and schooling for a child, just as it is possible for me to check the regular coagulation of saliva in a severed head.

”I am aware that it is physiologically important for a human being to attach to their parental figure as an infant. My reading shows that the development of the brain depends on this attachment. Without physical closeness, as without structure, portions of the brain are never brought online. They can atrophy as well, so these human needs are not something that can only be given at specific times in an infant’s life. Once they are given, they must continue to receive benefit. If they are never granted, that person will never achieve the growth that is necessary for a healthy existence. Even if they are shared later in that human’s life. This has, according to the research, nothing to do with intelligence. Though I think the studies are incomplete and do not reflect the importance of these things.” Sherlock went off message for a moment.

Shaking his head, he returned to his point with a deep breath. Raising his head, he looked back at John. “It is thought that many in the criminal classes are examples of men and women who were not given these things: nurturance, care, structure, discipline. Attachment disorder, inability to follow through on chains of thought or instruction. Lack of self-control. How often have we seen these in those Moriarty used, or whom Lestrade brings in responsible for crimes of passion, instability, and rage? This is science, John. Raising a child is a science, not an art.”

He stopped. John was watching him with an open mouth. He said slowly, “You were studying this. You have been reading about Child Development since we discovered all this was going on. How long have you had this idea?”

“I -” Sherlock was hesitant “- thought about it first when I saw that Moriarty had combined your family’s genetics with mine. It seemed...that it would not be such a bad thing to claim one of the children as my own. I am unlikely to breed in any other manner. Even with The Woman, Irene...I had not the inclination for a family. Not then.”

“I don’t know what to say,” John stuttered. He squashed the anger that Irene’s name brought, even now.

“Then allow me to go on? With any experiment, there are parameters. Set the terms of the experiment correctly, and there is no leeway for the poking and prodding that you seem to fear that I will do out of hand. You fear the word ‘experiment’ because you equate it with body parts in the refrigerator, with Baskerville, with manipulation on my part.

”If limits to the ongoing endeavour are put into place, then they would take care of your objections in that manner. Regular meals, bedtimes, schedules, school later on, and rules and discipline - all of those items can be set. And if they are not working, they can be reorganized later. You of all people understand the need for grasping at the opportunity.” A piercing look now. “By which I do not mean slipping unwholesome things into the diet to see what would follow. Do you really think that every parent knows exactly what will happen with their child? That they make no changes to how they handle behaviours? That parenting is not a matter of adopting, adapting and improving? I am willing to set goals for this, to go over what my plans are with you. I would have you be involved in the raising of this child. I believe that if I were to undertake this venture with you, that it would be easier for me to find emotional attachment. I am not pretending that I will be a natural parent. There are many who are more nurturing than I, yourself included. Many fathers and mothers are not particularly nurturing in this world, and they raise strong and healthy children. I understand that this would be a large and difficult undertaking.

”Financial considerations come into play as well. With the assistance of your blog our business has brought in a decent living, enough that were we a standard family, we would be able to afford children and still live comfortably. Mycroft has taken some of our reserve and had it invested, so there will be money in lean times. A secondary point, because of the situations that consulting has put both of us in: to manage this, we would need to ensure suitable childcare availability. Not -” for the first time the tall man had passion in his tone “- to abandon the child at a moment’s notice, nor to have a nanny raise the baby. That would be my...our responsibility. Our ability. But we would need to hire someone to be ready. We would not be able to leave the child with Mrs. Hudson; her hip precludes it.

”All children feel a measure of abandonment at various points in their life.” His voice dropped to a murmur. “Some more than most. But I am not proposing to take on the role of parenting in name only, to have the child treated like an item and cared for by a series of strangers. Nor am I planning to drop this into your lap. I am aware of the amount of work you put in around our flat, John. I am not suggesting that you become a full-time baby caregiver as well. But -” again softer “- I do feel that you would enjoy the opportunity to be a father.”

John sighed tiredly. “Sherlock, I’m not sure I’m good material to become a father. Harry’s an alcoholic, and that might come through the line. I might not be patient, or attached to a baby. And what you’re suggesting will most certainly make people talk.”

“They do little else.” Sherlock essayed another smile. He received one in return. “John, I believe that we can manage this. There will be issues. There will be arguments, and subtext telling you to punch me.” That brought a laugh from the doctor. “I am not looking at this as a fairy tale that will be simple, the waving of a fairy wand. I am looking at this as an endeavour that we would undertake together. I am asking you to think about the long-term implications, and whether or not you would be willing to be involved. I am also asking you to think about the implications of my taking this on without you. I am willing to do so, but I feel the incidence of success would increase if you were to continue as a conductor of light. Lestrade would call you a conductor of sanity as well.”

John Watson cleared his throat. “You would be willing to clear this flat up? Make it baby-safe? Where would we keep a baby to begin with?”

Sherlock made a noise, the sound he made when John was not thinking fast enough. “The child would have a crib set in my room. Later a small bed. With time we would have to make new arrangements.”

That room, wallpapered in green with the beautiful sleigh bed, was free from the disorganized clutter of the living area. John’s bed was more spartan, but only because his furnishings were a good deal cheaper. “Your experiments?” John brought up with a questioning lift of his voice.

“The Work must go on. It is an integral part of my living. Mrs. Hudson has despaired of renting out 221C. It contains a bedroom area that would do for a childcare worker to stay in, to provide with privacy. The kitchen could be converted to a lab. The main living area would become the office. You could do your blogging there as well -” Sherlock coughed “- and Mrs. Hudson would enjoy organizing any redecorating. It would be a business expense, but worth it.”

John closed his eyes in pleasure at the thought of a refrigerator filled with food, kitchen surfaces cleared of the clutter of experiments. Sherlock went on, “There is also the matter of the gun.”

John’s eyes opened immediately. “What matter of the gun?” he asked cautiously.

“It has been of great use. It has been necessary. You acquired this one after you threw your original service piece into the Thames shortly after we met. You have it hidden in the bottom of your wardrobe, which is not a very clever place to stow it, nor is it safe from exploring once the child becomes mobile. It will need to be secured.” Sherlock was pacing again, clearly running through scenarios in his head. “Even when we put gates up to make the stairs safer, a bright child will eventually figure out ways around our security measures.”

John could not stop a fond smile. “Were you a terror then, Sherlock?”

The tall, dark man ceased pacing, looked at the doctor. “I was a pirate, John. I climbed the rigging, to Mummy’s great despair and Mycroft’s terror. As elder he was certain that he would be blamed for any mishaps when I began to climb at six months. Before I could crawl, really.”

His blond haired flatmate began to laugh. “What I would give to have seen Mycroft running after you as a baby.” He realized Sherlock was still looking at him, staring really. “What?”

It was said slowly: “I do have photographs of us as children.”

“Yeah?” John found it difficult to believe.

Some time later, looking down at the shiny squares of paper, images of a tall plump boy trying to hold onto a struggling toddler with a mop of black curls, John wondered if those sixty-three babies would resemble Sherlock.


	6. Filthy Lucre

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to Lunamoth116 for beta-ing!

John typed in his current - and already hacked by the flatmate - password, calling up the email program. His inbox contained a mass of spam, a few offers of employment for Sherlock, and one note ostensibly from Mycroft. The doctor assumed that Anthea - or whatever her name was - had actually sent it, a link for a secure email account. When John logged in he was introduced via email to a number of scientists, officials, and educators, and swamped with file after file on the surrogates, pregnancies, and the adoptive parents being chosen for the babies. There was also a short, and apparently personal, email from Mycroft. “John, please consider any requests that my little brother may make of you in this matter with caution. Mycroft.” John deleted it, muttering, and moved on.

Working his way through the files, John came to understand that Moriarty had received down payments of an astronomical sum, with the final even larger amount to be paid upon receipt of each infant. Well, Moriarty’s organization, since the madman was deceased. Selling babies. John felt sick to his stomach, wondering why these people had been denied adoptions and had to purchase children. Of course, Sherlock might well tell him that Holmes genetic background, or possibly his in particular, was certainly worth the money. 

“Are you still on your laptop? Slow, even with your typing skills. What dullness has Mycroft sent you this time?” Sherlock was peering over his shoulder, then “Oh!” and he tried to take over John’s laptop.

Batting away the grasping hands, the seated man took great pleasure in denying the detective. “Interesting stuff this, Sherlock.” He smirked up at his flatmate before continuing, “They were selling your genes for quite a bit of cash.”

“Your genes too, John,” countered the taller man.

“I doubt the Watson side was a drawing card for the amount of money they received, and the pile that would be paid on delivery.” John shifted the screen for Sherlock’s easier viewing.

“Mmmm,” was the response. “Interesting. I assume that none of those couples will be receiving one of the children they so desperately desired?”

“Not -” John was grim, as he growled “- if I have any say in the matter.”

That got a laugh. “Tea?” was offered.

John nodded and went back to his studying. A mug - full, milky and hot - was placed by his keyboard at one point. Eventually lights were magically lit as well. It was later, as he was drinking the bitterly stewed tea cold, that he had a question. “Sherlock, did you tell Mycroft what you were...” John ran out of words. “Planning” was not strong enough. “Scheming’ did not fit either. Not exact enough. John went with, “Thinking?”

“John.” The baritone was teasing. “Mycroft? You think I would discuss anything with my brother before speaking with you? Unlikely.”

“So, he heard you playing and concluded...” John left it open for his flatmate to finish.

“Mycroft heard what I played and knew I was thinking of home and family. Sentiment. Caring is not an advantage, John.” The detective was watching as John looked sharply over at his friend laid out on the sofa. Sherlock spoke seriously: “What I am proposing is to take on caring in a solid and substantial way. Not -” it was enunciated “- to his taste.”

John smiled at Sherlock. “I wish my parents were alive to have met you. You would have thought them dull and ordinary, but I think they would have gotten a kick out of you. Or out of what you’ve accomplished, anyway.”

Sherlock continued staring at the ceiling, but his eyebrow twitched up. “The almost getting you killed part? Wrapped in a semtex vest?” he asked.

A sigh, followed by the comment, “My father would have thought you were unbelievable. I can hear his voice asking me, ‘But what’s he really like, Johnny? When you get him down to the pub?’”

“Your parents died unexpectedly,” Sherlock stated. “And you miss them.”

John smiled fondly at the man. “Yeah, well,” he said affectionately, “we can’t all have troubled childhoods. Thing is, they supported me. Not much money, but they gave me love. I was in uni studying medicine when they died. Hadn’t declared a speciality yet, but after the accident surgery began to interest me more and more.”

Sherlock mused, “Your father was a mechanic?”

“I can’t guess how you knew that, considering I don’t have a car. And can’t drive.” John grinned, confirming, “But yeah. When I took off for university he said I was going to learn to be a mechanic for people.”

John looked at his flatmate, still prone on the sofa, watching the cottage-white of the ceiling and waited for the next bit. “Neither you nor Harry decided to become a teacher like your mother?”

A snort. “Picturing Harry as a teacher? Neither of us have the knack for it. Mycroft said that your mother was a violinist?”

“Mycroft spoke of Mummy’s playing?” That sounded shocked.

“Once, long ago,” John said as he started closing out the files.

“My father -” it was not hesitant, but it was carefully put “- was a diplomat. Somewhat like Mycroft, but with less involvement in the intelligence side of things. Mummy’s family were originally French, and we spoke the language around the house as often as English. She played solo, and with a number of consorts in Paris before coming home to London.”

“Was? They are not alive?” John wanted to hear more. Sherlock never spoke of his family, and Mycroft did so very rarely.

Sherlock sat up. “Father contracted the flu. He refused to have it treated, insisted he was ‘fine’, which led to pneumonia. He was weak enough when the cancer appeared that he could not fight it. Mummy pined. But her death was due to incorrectly administered medication. She was in hospital for a routine procedure, and did not come out of the anaesthetic.”

A wash of sadness, regret that he’d not met either of them, colored John’s voice. “Is that why you refuse to go to the A&E?”

“Part of it. Far too often, medical staff remind me of Anderson. Or spend all of their time putting orange blankets around me for shock.” Sherlock looked over and smiled. John was relieved at the lack of bitterness. Sherlock’s smile grew wider. He teased, “You know that I prefer to keep my doctor close at hand, John.”

Shaking his head, the blond doctor responded, “You don’t sound as though your childhood was unhappy.” John would do everything in his power to keep Sherlock talking.

“It wasn’t.” Sherlock looked curious, asking, “Have I given you that impression? Mycroft was adored, for one, and I was spoilt. Mummy’s death came at a difficult time for me. I was going through puberty, all hormones and coltish legs and arms. Mycroft did his best by me, but he was neither Mummy nor Father, and never could be. Never wanted to be, actually. He had lost the two people who mattered most to him in the world, and left with a responsibility. I was sent away to school to finish my education, and Mycroft went back to work at Whitehall.”

“Harry blamed herself for the smash. The drinking came after that. Oh, she had been a drinker before that, even in school, but she was asked to i.d. the bodies. Climbed into the bottle, and only came out once in a while for whomever she was seeing. I had hoped that with Clara that it would take. Their relationship didn’t last.” John kept it light, a reminiscence. 

“Did your parents approve of Harry’s persuasion?” That was asked offhand, too simply so.

John swallowed the rest of the cold, bitter tea. “They wanted us both to be happy. Said they’d grown up when the world was changing. Harry marrying Clara came much later, but they’d have been pleased that she had settled down. Taken on the commitment.”

The deep, smooth voice repeated that last word: “Commitment.”

“Yeah.” John stood and stretched, telling his friend, “Don’t read too much into that. You and I should be committed with some of the rubbish we get up to.”

“You brought up commitment, John.” And damned if he hadn’t. 

“Have a question, Sherlock?” Best to get it out and over with, the reminder of what Sherlock wanted.

“No, but I thought you might have more. Things you wanted to know to help you make a balanced decision.” Sherlock was splayed out on the couch again, over-tall and with legs dangling over the arm. Even now he looked a trifle coltish.

John took his mug into the kitchen, and turned on the kettle. Coming back he leaned in the doorway, arms crossed. “How do you feel about the tooth fairy?”

That threw the all-knowing Sherlock. “Whatever do you mean, John?” the prone man demanded.

“Tooth fairy. Collects the child’s tooth after it’s popped out with the new one coming in under. Leaves money in place of the lost tooth.” John sounded completely serious.

“Really? Fairies, Watson?” Affronted, certainly. Uncertain as well as to why John was asking.

“So, no then. No Saint Nicholas either, I wager. Did you tell your entire class at school that he was made up?” It would explain so many things.

“ _Père Noël_ in a French house, John. And no. Mycroft and Mummy found it endearing that I believed. It was a boy in class who notified me of the betrayal that they were perpetrating. It was shattering. Does that answer your question?” Sherlock’s sense of humor, absent when he’d told that little girl that there was no Heaven, asserted itself in the oddest places.

John went to get the mugs, steep the tea correctly, and fix both before bringing Sherlock his. “It does, but leads to my next question. You don’t believe in a Heaven. What was it Irene told you, a Higher Power, but it was yourself?” He didn’t sound condemnatory, more questioning. “How would you expect to raise a child with someone who doesn’t believe as you do?”

Sherlock sighed, the sound becoming his own question. “Will you become a mystic, John? You will wish to take the child to church. I will desire to teach that there is no evidence for such legends and practices. Is it impossible that we would each share our beliefs and allow the child to choose? I promise not to denigrate, if you will not become a rabid old street preacher.”

“It will come up, you know,” John said quietly.

“So will a great many things. How do you feel about schooling?”

“My mother was a teacher, Sherlock. No homeschooling. And no boarding school.” John had an idea that this was in line with Sherlock’s desires.

“Agreed.” This was followed by a sip at his mug.

“My turn,” John said, asking, “Crime scenes?”

Some bit of silence for a time. “Children’s brains are like sponges. An infant or young child would not be able to process the information. I have no desire to traumatise the baby.” Which left a whole number of things out of the discussion.

“Which is why there would be qualified child care?” John raised a sand-colored eyebrow.

“Which is why,” Sherlock agreed, “there will be qualified child care. We must both attend the crime scenes. After all, I would be lost without my blogger.”

The talk ranged from there to qualifications and attachment theory. John felt himself sliding over his careful balance point. Just a bit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you are unaware of the connexion between Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and fairies, you should look it up. Really. Seriously. Wikipedia will have it.


	7. Reminiscence

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, thank you, beta Lunamoth116!

Milk in the refrigerator. Well. Unexpected. Not expired. John had not purchased it. Mrs. Hudson was away. Unopened container, therefore not contaminated, nor marked with the red sticker that John was keeping on the door for experimental items that would otherwise be considered food. He was not above taking advantage of good fortune. As he sipped at his blissfully milky tea he discovered the clean kitchen table, complete with a plate of very tempting currant rocks. No, he was not touching that.

“Sherlock?” A patient tone would work best, he decided, as he spoke, “Tell me about the cakes on the table.”

Sherlock did not look up from John’s laptop. “They’re your favourite, John.”

John stared at him, then said even more patiently, “I know they’re my favourite. Where did they come from?”

“Your sister texted me your Aunt Harriet’s recipe. Very simple.” His tone was distracted as his typing became furious. “This idiot believes that I have made an error in translation on one of my ash sample titles. Unbelievable!” 

“Is the oven working then?” John could have sworn that it was still filled with some form of congealed artificial rubber that Sherlock had used for an experiment.

“Used Mrs. Hudson’s.” That was absent-minded. “She copied the recipe. I hope that’s alright.”

“Fine. Fine.” John took a deep breath. “Sherlock, why are you baking my favourite biscuits? There is a right and a wrong answer to this.”

The laptop slammed closed, and the long, thin consulting detective flung himself along the sofa. “If you agree to the child, then we will need to provide items that have positive memory reaction for when the child is old enough to eat solid foods. Obviously these will have to be items that are relatively simple to prepare, as neither you nor I have the time, and Harriet has not the inclination, to cook dishes from your childhood. She has promised to email me a selection of your favorite foods from when you were younger. They will also need to be items with a low risk of allergic reaction for the first two years. I have started a file.”

John stared at nothing for a moment, then disappeared back into the kitchen. Picking up one of the cakes, he bit into it. Good. Every bit as good as Aunt Harriet’s, which should not have been possible. Memory was supposed to be unbeatable, after all. John could hear Harry’s shrill voice in the back of his head shouting that she would beat him to the top of the tree out in front of Aunt Harriet’s and Uncle William’s house. He ate a second one. Wouldn’t do to eat too many, unless he was planning on getting some exercise. “Sherlock,” he called, “any cases on?”

“It was the right answer, then?” Sherlock had his eyes closed.

“You might say that,” John hummed around a mouthful of cake, and he picked up the plate to bring it out to the living area. After all, Sherlock needed feeding too.

“Tea, John. Cakes without tea are unbearable.”

Right then. John went and put together a mug of tea with two sugars and brought it out. “What did you like to eat when you were little?”

“Not much,” was the answer, eyes still closed. “Mycroft was the one who ate, mostly after Father died. Mummy was an indifferent cook, but we would have French meals - _cassoulet_ , things with sauces. Those were mostly whichever cook we had at the time decided to serve. Being a diplomat’s house, we had to have a decent cook.”

“Nothing special on holidays? Nothing that you’d have called your own?” John found that sad.

“Holidays were times of parties, entertaining, dressing up in formal clothing, presentations and being well-behaved.” The deep voice was bored. “And later of dinners that devolved to bickering.”

John took another cake, ate it slowly, and attempted not to feel sad. “Marzipan,” Sherlock said finally. John looked at him. “Don’t be maudlin, John. If you’re asking me for a positive food memory of Christmas holidays, then marzipan. My father had found a _pâtisserie_ that made marzipan ornaments. He would purchase one each for me and for Mycroft. Mine was a violin. Mycroft’s was always a book. When Father died Mycroft took over the tradition, but only for me. And that stopped when I moved out,” Sherlock drawled.

“I’m not being maudlin,” his blond flatmate said stubbornly. “I’m thinking about where I can buy Mycroft a marzipan umbrella for Christmas. It’s the last thing he’ll be expecting!”

Whatever Sherlock was anticipating, it hadn’t been that. His laugh surprised John, and himself as well. John didn’t think that Sherlock had laughed much before John had moved in. Possibly to the skull, and maybe about his own cleverness. Surprising the man was good, he reflected. It was dark out now, and currant cakes were no substitute for a meal. Walking with Sherlock to the closest food his flatmate would agree to - Thai, tonight - John asked, “You really wanted to be a pirate?”

That small smile again. “Surely you did as well? Or, no. You wanted to be a knight in shining armour.”

“How did you get that one?” John never ceased to be amazed, even after all this time.

“Fighting dragons?” So Sherlock found that humorous, did he?

“And how often did you make Mycroft walk the plank?” John asked innocently.

The smile was a smirk now. “Countless times. He was very bad at being the ship’s cook, much less a peg-leg, and had to be taught a lesson.”

John grinned. “So you read _Treasure Island_?”

“Mycroft read it to me before he went away to school. He enjoyed it the first time,” Sherlock said in a reminiscent tone.

“ _Treasure Island_ , but no works of modern literature? And none of the great classics either?” John always found this astonishing, “How did you get through school without them? Oh, you deleted them?”

“Yes.” It was said simply, matter-of-fact.

“How is it,” John asked out of the blue, “that you remember nursery rhymes, but don’t know any modern culture or literature? Why weren’t those deleted?”

Sherlock swung around, collar up, the skirts of his coat belling out, demanding, “What?”

John smiled. “When you were arguing with me about the solar system. You said, ‘So we go round the Sun. If we went round the moon or round and round the garden like a teddy bear’. Nursery rhyme, Sherlock. I’m wondering how many more you will remember.”

Those piercing eyes narrowed, considering. They stood in silence, but John was used to waiting for the train of thought to finish. Sherlock transferred attention back to his flatmate. “Quite a few, it seems.” There was humour in that lower register. 

John began to laugh, gestured forward, then fell into step beside his partner. Sherlock sank back into his train of thought and the remainder of the walk was to the soundtrack of the London streets at night. The food was good, Sherlock picking his meal apart as if it were a corpse to be dissected. John ate steadily, encouraging conversation, and exchanging information from his newfound wealth on _in vitro_ , his knowledge of basic pregnancy and delivery, with Sherlock’s on brain growth and child development. It was enjoyable; Sherlock could manage conversation, but the talk had to be of interest, informational, not opinion. Well, not opinion unless backed by fact. The consulting detective frequently asked John for his opinion. He had told the doctor that listening to John’s thought processes helped clarify his own, gave him insights into the minds, “however tiny”, of others. 

On the walk returning to 221B Sherlock fell into silence again. Unlocking the door he froze. “John,” he said, looking round, “what did you mean when you said ‘how many more you will remember’?”


	8. Research

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you beta-er Lunamoth116!

John Watson woke up, head on the desk, dreaming he was late for exams. No thick, highlighted textbooks under his head, no study guides or papers in three-ringed-binders, only the laptop with its swelling collection of files detailing every piece of medical knowledge gathered on The Initiative. As a doctor he was experienced in keeping current on medical affairs, on new procedures, on his patients. This went well beyond that. John felt sympathy for Sherlock's “hard drive”, considering how full his own head felt. A pale, thin hand placed a mug of hot tea, milky and unsweetened, lightly and without spilling on the scarred wood of the desktop next to the silver of his computer. Darkness showed outside the window, and the lights were on in the flat. “When did you get back?” John had to clear his throat and repeat the question.

“Lestrade granted me the favor of escape from Anderson’s tender mercies about an hour ago,” the doctor was told. Previously his flatmate had told John not to come with him. “It was only a four, John. Not worth your bothering.” Well, that was a switch from sending John out while Sherlock lounged about the flat in a sheet.

“Good. Good.” The words turned into a yawn that cracked the doctor’s jaw. “Takeaway?”

That deep voice drifted from over behind the sofa, “I brought curry. In the kitchen. What have you done with your books?”

Watson went from sleepy to tense. “My books?” How had the infuriating man even noticed those two shelves? They were blocked by the end of the sofa. Hidden in plain sight! It should have been foolproof. John had hoped Sherlock would deem it unimportant, and therefore ignorable.

“Your ‘literature’ collection. All those awful paperbacks are gone. Two shelves of thrillers and action novels, as if your life is not active enough, John? All those books stacked, not shelved or coordinated.” The long, black-clad knees stuck out on either side as Sherlock crouched, and muttered, “Now replaced with children's hardcovers... _Wind in the Willows_... _Five Children and It_... _Wet Magic_ ... Do you have every E. Nesbit book ever written?”

“No! I mean, yeah.” John cleared his throat, then again, before saying, “Harry sent those over.” It was bad enough that the note with the books had read, “Glad you and Sherlock have come to terms with your relationship. Hope these will be fun for the little one! I remember how you loved them when we read them with Mum. And some new titles that you might have heard of.” John had crumpled the paper up and buried it in the dustbins outside, under Sherlock’s latest experiment.

Those new titles had been the Harry Potter series, a complete collection, including _The Tales of Beedle the Bard_. All John had asked Harry was if she had ever thought of having children. Foolishly, he’d gone on to say that he and Sherlock had been discussing it while on a case, which was true. John was well aware that he was a poor liar. He'd not meant discussing _having_ children themselves, of course. He’d more wanted to find out what Harry thought of herself as a mother. If she had ever wanted to have kids. But Harriet had gone over the moon about the idea of John as a father. Restraining her runaway imagination, well, just not on.

“John!” That was excited. Sherlock was waving a heavy copy of _Treasure Island_ at him. It was tucked firmly and possibly permanently under the thin, former pirate’s arm as he dragged another volume from the shelving - an older, worn storybook.

John found himself out of the chair and over by Sherlock without thought, rescuing the fragile piece. “Careful there,” it was murmured as he held the book tight.

“ _The Magic City_?” Sherlock raised his eyebrows. “Another E. Nesbit? But fairly old. Of some importance, obviously. Your mother's?”

“It was my mother’s, yes.” John could feel the tattered, crumbling book cover under his careful fingers, the binding itself still solid after all the years of reading and rereading, out loud and to himself. John remembered his mother’s gentle voice, his and Harriet’s excited cries each night when it was time for bed. Well, trusting the man, he grudgingly opened up a bit more. “We - Harry and I - used to build cities with the books and dishes. Like in the story.”

“With your books?” Sherlock was shocked and delighted. “And your mother allowed that?”

“Mum helped us.” John smiled. His flatmate shook his head in disbelief. John grinned, “Dad thought we were a bit mad. He stayed to listen, though.”

Sherlock smiled back, responding with, “That I can well believe.” Then as an afterthought, “Why exactly did your sister send these?” The man had inferred, John knew, but was giving him the opportunity to explain.

John rolled his eyes before explaining, “I asked her what she thought about having children. She assumed I meant you and me. I really was asking about her. Thinking about the eggs she donated, but really didn't say anything about those yet. She misunderstood.” Sherlock’s eyebrow was raised now, no comment in response. John went on, “Now she thinks...” Well, best to leave that unfinished.

Sherlock scoffed. “Harry does not think. She did not listen, did she? Do you think she will talk?”

That got a small wry smile from John. “People do little else.”


	9. Mycroft

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to Lunamoth116 for beta-ing!

Mycroft sighed. A sound of convenience, one to fill the space between the brothers. There was no hiding the effect that Sherlock had on him, none at all. The minor official in the British Government took comfort in the familiarity of his office. In spite of his reputation as an “Ice Man”, there were signs of Mycroft’s personality all over the room, if one knew how to look. The books on the shelves; the antique umbrella stand in the corner by the washroom; no photographs, but a small watercolor on the wall, painted by their mother. Mycroft knew that Sherlock took in the painting, a landscape reminding them both of happier times, every time he entered this office. Down to business. “You are putting your doctor in a difficult position.” His words were terse and chiding. The chair surrounding him had been a good investment, the proportions tailored to his body, allowing comfort in stressful situations. 

“You keep saying that, Mycroft, as though it will change my actions,” his brother announced indifferently. A pose. Mycroft could feel the vibrations across the desk, across the room. Sherlock was wired for action, and longed for something to do, instead of sitting here conversing with his elder brother.

“Dr. Watson gives in to you far too often for your own good,” was his observation, not a judgment. Mycroft’s judgment on the good doctor, and on his relationship and effect on his younger brother, were kept very strictly to himself.

Was the shocked look real or affectation? “John? Dr. John Hamish Watson? The man who goes into fits over a perfectly simple head in the refrigerator?”

Ah, affectation. “Sherlock, the man is practically your private assassin,” he gave out, as a strike below the belt might be effective.

Anger, obvious and immediate. Defensive on John’s behalf. Yes, that had struck a nerve. “John is no more an assassin than your umbrella.”

“A tool then, to be used?” came the riposte.

A lesser man might have told Mycroft where to stick his umbrella, or attempted to thrust it bodily through the auburn-haired man. Mycroft knew that Sherlock was certainly capable of violence, though he had never exhibited it toward his sibling. Not even during the dark days of Sherlock’s drug haze. The whip-thin man might exhibit distaste, but if push came to shove he would be there for his older brother. Mycroft did everything in his power to ensure that he would never need Sherlock’s help in actuality, beyond the small cases he thought would keep his brother occupied. It had been bad enough that Moriarty had used Sherlock to get to Mycroft.

Sherlock leaned back in the lovely leather chair on the other side of the desk, the manic energy contained. “You and I both know that John is not a tool for your use. Will you get to the point, Mycroft?” That last was gritted out through clenched teeth.

Mycroft considered it. Truth be told, the man - bureaucratic genius that he was - continued to be uncertain about this endeavour. It had, of course, been factored into his calculations upon including Dr. John H. Watson in the project. “You have brought up your desire to raise one of the children from the Initiative as your own. How has Dr. Watson reacted?”

Sherlock quoted in a pitch perfect mimicry, “No! Just no, Sherlock! Bloody hell, no!” Then he grinned, entirely Sherlock, Mycroft’s beloved baby brother.

Mycroft allowed a carefully contained smile. It really was quite expected, but even so remained amusing. “He will eventually agree. It is only a matter of time. Would an expression of disapproval on my part hasten this in any way?”

“Assistance from you, brother dear? Without a request on my part? What strings will you attach to this so very generous offer?” Sherlock cocked his head, intrigued in spite of himself.

“No strings. A request.” The reply was short, which meant that Mycroft was experiencing an excess of emotion. When Sherlock nodded and gestured for him to go on, his brother spoke, “The child will be given the Holmes name. An heir to us both.”

Sherlock’s considering look in return made Mycroft uneasy. What exactly did his mercurial brother have in mind for this child that it would take consideration for him to agree to Mycroft’s reasonable request? Slowly, Sherlock drawled, “Your heir. One of mine.”

Not even a twitch, but Sherlock felt a measure of excitement that he had managed to surprise Mycroft. It would only have been evident to family; that impassive face would have fooled anyone else. “One of yours?” The questioning tone was equally controlled, but the signs were there in the intonation.

“I intend for a second child. _In vitro_ fertilization is a marvelous procedure. The next child will be John’s. No, I have not discussed this with him, but understanding how John feels about family, I believe it will be slightly easier to encourage the discussion, and possibly lead him to bring the idea up after the first child is situated. It will be apparent at that time that our partnership will be able to afford the expense. I will be amenable to his suggestion.” Sherlock strove to avoid sounding pompous, but rather thought he had failed.

Leaning forward in the tailored chair, one hand over his eyes, Mycroft Holmes relaxed his guard and began to laugh. When an uncertain Sherlock commented on the importance of a sibling in his child’s life, the laughter burgeoned.

...

John was back on his laptop when the street door slammed downstairs. His flatmate’s distinctive footsteps clattered up the seventeen steps, and the tall dark-haired whirlwind swept past him, shedding the flaring black coat as the detective swept up his bow, tightened the hairs, rosined them, then flipped the violin beneath his chin and began to play. The doctor waited until the piece was over before asking, “So. You’ve seen Mycroft then?”

Sherlock’s head turned to him so quickly John winced, thinking of whiplash. “What makes you believe I’ve seen my brother, John? What is the pattern?”

“You play that Stravinsky piece after the two of you argue. Which is most times you see him. What did he want now? Another case?” John’s good humor encouraged Sherlock to join in on the joke.

The stare was piercing. Slowly his friend said, “He wanted to know if I’d asked you about raising one of the children yet.”

“Oho!” John snorted as he continued to hunt and peck at his keyboard. “And how does he feel about that idea?”

Sherlock swallowed hard, and found John looking up at him when the answer was not immediately forthcoming. “Mycroft wishes to make the child his heir.” John thought the statement sounded a bit helpless, really.

Sherlock’s constant, the man who insisted he eat, sleep, not run headlong into cannon fire without a plan, began to laugh. “Well, then. We don’t need him. How does he think he’s going to control us this time? Neither of us care about money beyond paying the bills. You’ve already worked out how we’d pay for things.” John did not sound offended, merely amused.

“No strings, no obvious control, possibly a pervasive influence.” Sherlock was still staring at John as he spoke, “He feels that you will be a good parent. Or as my brother said, ‘John is more likely to raise a healthy, happy child than anyone else I know’.”

There was the dropped jaw, the widened eyes, the shocked look. Sherlock said consideringly, “He offered to disapprove if it would encourage you to agree to the idea.”

“And you are telling me this because?” John regained control of his surprise.

“Because -” it was drawn out “- I have come to the conclusion that manipulating you to achieve the desired outcome is ineffective. It could lead to undesirable consequences. As my partner in this, it is better to have your wholehearted and unreserved support.”

John blinked at his flatmate. He carefully examined his manipulative and conniving flatmate. Sherlock looked back at him. John could think of nothing to say. He did close his mouth.

“John,” Sherlock began, “I think that you should be aware that I expect we will have more than one child to raise. A sibling would be very important in the overall scheme of things.”

“What? You want to take two of the babies? One of the sets of twins?” John requested clarification.

“No. One will be more than sufficient for now. The second would come after a period of time, possibly two years.” Sherlock looked at John intensely as he spoke.

John gaped, “Are you expecting Moriarty and Culverton Smith to do all this again? Or do you think we’ll have a baby left on our doorstep in a basket?”

Still that intense stare. “I propose that we would again use _in vitro_ fertilization for the process, but with you as the sperm donor for the second child.”

The silence stretched on for some time. John’s mind whirled, and Sherlock’s was intent on each small twitch of reaction from the doctor. Finally: “I... I will consider it. That is...oddly considerate of my feelings, Sherlock.” John found himself looking for reaction from his insane flatmate. They stared at each other until John asked, “Why are you bringing this up now? I would have expected you to tackle me with something like this after I’d got the noose good and tight around my neck.”

Sherlock’s questioning face curved up into his “it’s Christmas” grin. “Why, John? Because it’s the right thing to do. Responsible and mature. Don’t you agree?” And setting bow to instrument, the consulting detective began the cheerful opening measures of a Dvořák tone poem.


	10. "John?" "Greg..."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, Lunamoth116, for beta-ing!

The man with the sand-coloured hair, somewhat average, memorable because of his engaging smile, was sitting at a small round table, back to the wall and a second pint of lager in his hand, an empty glass standing on the table. He drank, and from time to time checked his watch and the door. When Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade walked through the entryway, he was flagged over with a wave of the hand. Grabbing a drink of his own and one more for his friend, Greg Lestrade took the seat next to the doctor, back also to the wall, and examined the crowd. Shoving the second pint over and nodding in reply to John’s “Ta!” he asked, “Anybody interesting?” The police officer took a sip.

“No one to cause trouble. A hen party in the back. Otherwise, no one worth chatting up either.” John Watson leaned back. He’d noticed a little smirk at the “chatting up” comment, so Greg must have met someone. Holmes was rubbing off on him. After a moment, he said, “I am trying to figure out which one is Sherlock.”

“I can’t picture the man in a pub,” admitted Lestrade.

John grinned, explaining, “He fits in well. ‘The Art of Disguise’. You’ve seen him with witnesses, Greg. He can be almost anything he wants to be. ‘Wants to be’ being the operant words.”

“I wouldn’t mind if you’d brought him,” Lestrade pointed out. “Least not most days.”

“A pint and a quiet chat would bore him.” That said, John’s grin was relaxed.

“Then why would he be here in disguise?” Lestrade laughed the words.

There was a sly smile. “He wants an answer to a question he asked me.” Receiving a questioning look from the Inspector, John continued, “Sherlock knows I planned on asking your opinion about something. It’s got to be driving him spare.” A cheeky grin there as John raised his glass as though examining the dark golden color of the lights through the beer. It blocked his mouth as he said, “Sherlock can read lips, you know.” John took another pull of his drink.

Greg Lestrade looked startled for a moment, then took a long drink. “Doesn’t surprise me at all.” He was looking the room over casually.

John cocked his head, turning to look directly at the Detective Inspector. “Were you also aware that the word ‘vacuum’ will be lip read as ‘fuck you’?”

That got a laugh, and John joined in. “We’re discussing science fiction then?” Lestrade asked. “The vacuum of space? Thought they didn't call it that anymore?”

John twinkled - there was no other word for that shining expression - as he commented, “Were you aware that the earth goes around the sun?”

Lestrade’s laugh was loud before he responded, “I might have heard that, yes.”

Time to swing the conversation away from Sherlock Holmes. “So. You seeing someone?” Innocuous enough question, based on information received.

A pleased curve of the lips, not quite private, from Greg. “Yeah. Early days though. We’ll see where it goes. Not someone who would like the pub much.”

“Got an available sister?” John drank, thinking that it couldn’t hurt to ask.

Greg’s eyes scanned the room. Was he still looking for Sherlock? John still didn’t see anyone he thought would be his flatmate in disguise. “No. Got a brother though.” Yeah, now Greg was laughing at him.

“Well, that’s no good then,” John grumbled.

“No, I wouldn’t think so,” Greg responded aloud.

John glanced sideways at the Detective Inspector. “Likes sport?”

That got another laugh. “Not particularly.”

John let his relief show. “Well, then we’re still on to watch the matches, right?” It wouldn’t do to let one of his few friends disappear into the aether of a relationship.

Greg Lestrade nodded, before stipulating, “If you can get Sherlock to find somewhere else to be. It’s distracting trying to watch when he’s deliberately setting off pyrotechnics in the loo.” When John giggled with relief, Greg turned and looked at him carefully. “So what’s going on with Sherlock?”

The silver-haired man took a pull of his drink. John waited for him to swallow, and got a curious look from the detective inspector, an eyebrow quirked up to question the pause. “Much as I’d enjoy seeing you do a spit-take, Greg…”

“That bad?” Greg put his beer down.

“Sherlock wants to adopt a baby.” John kept his face straight, waiting for the expected response.

Lestrade’s face froze. “You’re joking, yeh?” That was quietly concerned. Then as an afterthought, “Why would he be asking you? What? For permission to keep it in the flat?”

John’s sigh was humorous. “He’s asked me to parent the baby with him.”

Blinking, Lestrade said carefully, “I thought that you weren’t with Sherlock.”

“Still not gay, Greg,” John growled as he took a long draught of lager. Of course, this was par for the course. “Sherlock and I are not a couple. Well, we’re a couple of madmen, but not a couple in the standard sense of the word.”

Greg Lestrade took a long drink. He looked down into the amber liquid. “Are you seriously considering this, John?” he asked, looking up. “You know how I found Sherlock. Strung out. You know how he relates to people. Not at all. How do you expect to rely on him with a baby?”

“Now there is the question, Greg. Sherlock is a man who put a head in our refrigerator to measure saliva coagulation. To solve a murder. He’s dedicated to The Work. I have reason to believe he would be dedicated to this. To the baby. It is his. His DNA, anyway.” No sense bringing up the idea of a second child. That was between John and Sherlock at this point.

“John.” Greg was speaking reasonably. “Sherlock is dedicated to the puzzles that The Work provides. Anything below a seven, he won’t leave the house for it. Didn’t he send you out on that thing… the boomerang death? With a laptop?”

“Yes.” John sat up straight and looked, direct again. “But he has been doing much less serious work for you, hasn’t he? Lately?”

Greg Lestrade gained understanding, and it showed in his words. “That’s why he’s been solving my cold cases, isn’t it? Is this a bargain you made with him?”

John shook his head violently, then gave the answer. “No, that was entirely his own idea. Occupying himself. Finding alternative outlets to shooting the walls and winding Donovan up. Sherlock pointed out to me that his business has been doing well. I’m his colleague, business partner in theory and, well, we have a joint account. Otherwise it would be hell to pay the bills. We can afford this. If I’m afraid taking care of a child will be an experiment he’ll lose interest in, then I am to be involved in setting the terms of the event.”

Greg’s eyes widened. “Sherlock’s baby? Sherlock’s DNA?” His friend’s previous words had just hit the police officer, a ton of figurative bricks.

John leaned forward, speaking quietly: “Sherlock was a sperm donor while on a case. Moriarty got hold of his samples and used them to impregnate donated eggs.”

Lestrade snorted. “I didn’t think he got some poor girl knocked up.”

Shaking his head John said, “I think he’d have been too careful for that.”

“What? Sherlock and a woman?” Greg was incredulous. “Or a man for that matter, other than you?”

Now it was John’s turn to spit the mouthful of beer he’d just taken back into the glass. “Greg! Don’t do that! Anyway, I seriously doubt that Sherlock Holmes is a virgin.” Moriarty had not been the best person to rely on for that sort of information.

“Oh, you doubt that, do you?” Greg was laughing at John’s naiveté.

“Seriously, Greg,” John repeated in exasperation, “what is one of the prime motivators in crimes of passion? Other than money?”

“And other than rage? Yeah, I get that sex is a motivator,” Greg argued. “But that doesn’t mean that Sherlock Holmes has actual physical experience with it. Even when he was on drugs he wasn’t turning tricks or fucking around like so many addicts do. ‘Couldn’t be bothered with fornication’, he said at the time.”

John raised an eyebrow. After a moment Greg relented, “Well, if you put it that way…makes sense that he’d go out and do clinical tests.”

“Exactly. This is a man who puts a head in the fridge, for heaven’s sake, to measure the coagulation of saliva after death. He measures the dissolution rates of human fingernails in sea water. Why would he stop at sexual intercourse if it would give him a greater understanding of the criminal mind?”

Greg drawled, “And yet, he couldn’t understand why Jennifer Wilson never got over the loss of her baby.”

The corner of John’s mouth quirked up. “That may come too, Detective Inspector, once he’s experienced having a child of his own.”

“I’m picturing Holmes as the worst helicopter parent ever.” The remark came without thought as Greg shook his head. “What happens,” he asked, “if you find someone and fall in love? Want to marry them? Have kids of your own?”

John Watson leaned his head back against the wall, closed his eyes. “If the child is mine to raise, then the child is mine, regardless of whether I’m living with Sherlock or somebody else. I wouldn’t take this on halfway, Greg.”

“No, I suppose you wouldn’t.” Greg and John finished their drinks in silence. “So you’re asking me for my opinion on this mess?”

“I guess I am, yeah.”

“Don’t bring the kid to crime scenes.” Greg wasn’t laughing about that.

“No,” John responded, “Sherlock has worked that out. Lot of neurological reasons why we wouldn’t. You’d have to ask him, as he’d love to give you chapter and verse on that. All I’m saying is that it has to do with trauma during brain development.”

“I’m serious, John.”

“So are we. No bringing the baby, or later the child, to crime scenes. Word of honor. If we do this.” John grimaced.

“John -” Greg Lestrade stood to get them each another pint “- don’t kid yourself. You’ve already made that decision.”

John H. Watson, M.D., watched his friend head to the bar and realized that he had.


	11. In the Flesh

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, Lunamoth116 for beta-in and making me laugh out loud.

John’s laptop was closed and stowed away long before they reached the facility. He could not think. His thoughts were constantly shifting subjects, and the wireless reception was poor in any case. The Initiative was held at a private sanatorium, closed to the public at large. The former Royal Army surgeon had read everything to be found on the net, as well as Mycroft’s selected files. The doctor’s attention flickered back to the man occupying the seat next to him, then out the window. “John,” the deep voice drawled, “relax.”

Sixty women, John thought, sixty hormonal women, three pregnant with twins, plus all of the medical, support, and security staff for Sherlock to get going over the next week.

“What would it profit me, John?” Sherlock was once again reading John’s mind. Or not his mind, but his mannerisms.

“Winding up Mycroft,” was John’s answer.

The laughter that reply brought made John’s sidelong grin appear. There was something - John couldn’t describe what - about being the person who made Sherlock Holmes, the only bloody consulting detective in the world, laugh. “I guess I’m wondering what these women will be like,” John admitted.

“Not wondering about the children?” Sherlock mocked gently. “Trust ‘Three Continents’ Watson to be thinking about the women in the case.”

John rolled his eyes in frustration. He knew that Sherlock was deliberately misconstruing. “Sixty hormonal women, Sherlock. Rapid mood swings. Hot flashes. Pregnancy is not comfortable.”

“Dr. Watson.” The long, thin man stretched out beside him smirked as he said, “I am capable of observing quietly while you do whatever it is that Mycroft has you doing during these visits. I will ask questions, of course. But I doubt they will be of the ‘why did you murder your father’ variety. The selection of surrogates was extraordinarily thorough. Moriarty’s people knew all the dirty secrets to look for and weed out.”

“Seems more likely he’d want them under his thumb.” John could not help but remember the jury that had set Moriarty free.

“Moriarty is vastly different from the people who served under him. According to Mycroft, these people wish to be involved in this project. They are being paid very well for the duration. Culverton Smith took this on as a money-making project, whatever Moriarty was planning.” Sherlock sighed. “That much effort, the blackmailing of everyone involved, not to mention the consistent frightening of them, requires more energy and time than anyone but Moriarty would put into it. It requires drive and avid interest.”

“Thirty weeks,” John mumbled. “Most of them at thirty weeks, anyway. How on earth did Smith manage that?”

“Yes!” Sherlock displayed animation at last, commenting enthusiastically, “The science of the Initiative is fascinating!”

John listened to his flatmate theorize from the data in hand, correcting medical flaws in the theories from time to time, though not as often as it might be from anyone else. It passed the time.

Looking at the enormous grey building sliding closer and closer, John could only think unhappily of spending a week here. It was institutional in every negative sense of the word. Stark. Severe. Daunting. Not home.

“The game is on, John!” That phrase as the car came to a halt - perfectly comfortable, spontaneous, excited. John felt the smile bloom as he hauled on the nylon carryall over his shoulder. Home, after all, is where the heart is.

On the initial tour Sherlock had given John a quiet, but continual stream of observations. The lighting was very close to natural sunlight, and the only windows were long, thin, and placed close to the ceilings of the rooms against outer walls. Those openings were entirely too small for any human being to fit through, even without the advantage of being too high to climb out. A secure area.

The tour, and their introduction to the facility’s coordinator - a cadaverous man who oversaw the support staff and security - had been informative, had given them a basic background to understand the women secured here. “Secured” was the operant word, for they had not been able to leave once the embryos had implanted, and would not until they gave birth. The site was far from any congenial gathering of people, and so walking would not get one of the inhabitants anywhere. In return, their contracts gave them a substantial sum of money waiting for them in the bank, food, personal trainers, and a comfortable living for the specified time period. Male personnel, except for Medical Doctors, were not to interact with the surrogates in any fashion, nor were the female staff allowed to “fraternize”. A heavy percentage of the staff were women. Rotation of shifts ensured that no member of the staff was in consistent contact with the surrogates throughout the ten-month-long period, with the exception of a number of midwives, who were also signed up for the duration. Doctors were cycled through monthly, with a required on-call, on-site for everyone in the last month of the Initiative.

The interviews went much more quickly than John expected. He was simply there to determine that the women - the surrogates - were cared for, and not under duress. Twenty minutes with each woman, and then time to write up his notes for the next, including commentary from Sherlock. John had noted aloud that the facility was really quite well set up. Sherlock responded that he would not be surprised if the government - emphasized in the way John understood to mean Mycroft - took them over for research purposes. Nothing was for free, of course, but it was certainly a well-equipped facility. Maintenance and staffing would be the only costs now.

The four dormitories were not separated by blonde or brunette, which seemed to be randomly mixed. Consisting of ten sleeping areas each, those bedrooms had a private water closet and shower area. The bedrooms were the only private, or really semiprivate area, surrounding a largish gathering space. There were entrances to a huge central garden and a courtyard, for exercise and to make it less claustrophobic, though three large gyms were located elsewhere in the facility, and the surrogates were scheduled with time to use them, and trainers to work on keeping up muscle tone and monitoring the babies during those sessions. Each bedroom had two occupants; these had initially been assigned, but the surrogates had changed roommates to suit themselves.

The women had settled into permanent areas now, and each of the dorms seemed to be groups of mutual interests. Dorm 1 was filled with athletic personalities; they were the most often seen in the gym areas, and walking swiftly about the courtyard. Their shelving by the television was filled with exercise videos and reality shows - personal items that were labeled, but available to anyone in the dorm. On bad weather days, the auditors were told, many of the women had a course set out through the hallways of the complex. Dorm 2 had a mix of readers and writers, with mandatory quiet hours set by the women in the dormitory. Their shelves were filled with a mixture of paperback books and hardbound classics. E-books were available on the server, as were movies of books turned to film. The books were changed out by two of the doctors each month, although the private rooms kept their personal reading material. Dorm 3’s inhabitants had requested and received a huge plasma screen television, and speakers which the women had set up for surround sound. The system was connected to a server that had every film John could think of. He had to admit that after trying to come up with obscure films and finding them in the listings. 

Dorm 4 was, for Sherlock, the most interesting. These were the remnants, the women who wanted to be left alone for the most part, or were not particularly liked. This was also the dorm that was emptiest. There were events that allowed the sixty women to gather; by this time everyone knew everybody undergoing the “research”.

Staff quarters and living areas were in an entirely separate part of the facility. No kitchens were available for the surrogates. Obviously the medical staff were keeping track of food intake and limiting certain factors. No alcohol, small amounts of caffeine, and of course no smoking. Everything was measured. One of the surrogates later shocked John with mention of a “masturbation diary”.

Each dormitory grouping ate together around a long table, and the women were expected to eat at regular mealtimes. John was reminded of an old-fashioned boarding house. 

If he’d not been aware of the background, the doctor would not have suspected anything other than a research project, albeit an oddly organized one, almost communal, since no one seemed to have a clue as to what was being studied. The amount of information they were gathering was staggering.

John and Sherlock met with each surrogate mother individually in a series of examination rooms. Everyone in the facility had been told that Dr. John H. Watson and Mr. Holmes were auditors. The women, if they had noticed the delineation by type, had not mentioned it when John interviewed them. They all giggled, however, when John was introduced. “No reason,” he heard from each.

“Remarkably consistent response,” Sherlock muttered in John’s ear.

Complaints were general. The food was boring. The rooms made several of the women feel claustrophobic. Some of the women were bitches and backstabbers. There was a great deal of flirtation with John. Sherlock was neutral enough in his approach that after initial contact most of the surrogates lost interest and focused on smiling Dr. Watson.

The first surrogate that Sherlock asked for permission to touch her distended belly laughed and leaned back to allow it. “He’s not getting off on this, is he?” she asked John with amusement.

They watched those long-fingered hands pressing, exploring. No sexuality to it whatsoever. “No.” John grinned at her to receive a smile in return. “He honestly wants to know about the process of growth and delivery. No kink here that I’m aware of.”

Though, how would he know? The interaction just did not look sexual at all. Sherlock’s excitement on feeling the baby move beneath the skin, beneath his fingers, was infectious. Joyful rather than sensual. “John!” It was his ‘Christmas Day’ face, as he invited his friend to invade the surrogate’s personal space. After another smile, and a nod from the dark-haired woman, John knelt by the dark-haired man and put the flat of his capable hand on the roundness of pregnancy, feeling the life within move. “I get a kick out of it myself,” the surrogate admitted. “Can’t believe I got to have this experience. Getting paid for it too! It will give me an edge when I decide to do it for real. Or, well, for me.”

John had been asking her about that, about her plans, wondering why the women had given up their lives to carry these children. “The money was good, and it won’t interfere with my life plans any,” had been this surrogate’s answer. “If I were teaching I’d be taking a twelve-month contract, and this pays me more than I’d make as a teacher.” 

She was the last of the dark-haired women, and next day the “auditors” would move on to the - as Sherlock was putting it - “Watson surrogates”. They’d continued to call the dark-haired contingent “The Dark Side” between the two of them, rather than anything to do with The Dead Man, as John had started thinking of Moriarty. It helped the doctor to put some distance from the insertion of Moriarty back into their lives. It had been a toss between that and “He Who Must Not Be Named” or “Voldemort”. John thought it best not to give that much attention to the not at all dearly deceased.

Sherlock asked her what instrument she played; flute, was it? The woman smiled broadly, agreed, and that was when the detective asked to feel the child move. Upon leaving the examination room, Sherlock said something to her in French. “How did you know I spoke French?” she’d asked in a marveling tone.

“Pronunciation during your conversation with Dr. Watson,” and the man was courteous instead of taking leave abruptly. He hadn’t been rude, but part of the reason they were ahead of schedule was Sherlock’s brusqueness. Sixty women scheduled, and they’d already seen thirty of them in the past ten hours. John had insisted on a break for food halfway through.

John was amazed. “What made her different?” he asked, moving toward their assigned room.

There was that small proud smile. “What were your observations of that particular surrogate?” They’d agreed not to use names. Too many individuals to keep track of.

“She seemed fit enough. Calm temperament. Lovely smile.” John grimaced at Sherlock’s laugh. “Content. Color under her fingernails. Slight odor of turpentine. She’s an artist?”

“Good, John!” That smile again, before the detective elaborated, “Calluses on her fingers from playing the flute.”

John had a small epiphany. “She reminded you of your mother,” he said.

That stopped his flatmate. Sherlock was looking at him, startled. “Very good, John! Not completely, of course, but there was a slight resemblance. Mother used watercolors, and not oils, played the violin not the flute, but otherwise, yes.”

Oh. This surrogate had made it personal for Sherlock. John felt a lift of happiness that she’d allowed the brilliant man to invade her privacy, bringing a personal note to the cold data of the medical reports. Sherlock stopped his flatmate with a hand to his sleeve. “John, quite a number of the surrogates have referred to the foetuses as though they are parasites. Aliens.” Those were statements and yet questions as well.

“They were joking. Gallows humour. A movie series from decades ago that had aliens laying eggs inside living humans. The infant aliens’ birth was bursting out through the chest of their human host.” John wasn’t sure if his description had helped Sherlock to understand the reference.

That deep thoughtful voice replied, “There are a number of parasitic insects that implant an egg, or multiples, into a living host. Many of them paralyze the larger insect first. Those that do entomb the host, providing a food source for the infants when they hatch.”

“Yes. Sounds about right.” John nodded. “Not how humans are born, of course. Who knows what some people believe. A woman at the clinic thought you could get pregnant from swimming in a pool with men. Unbelievable! Anyway, you’ve seen the indoctrinations these women were given. They don’t actually believe they’re hosting aliens. That sort would have been weeded out before beginning the process.”

“I suspect the humour is part of an attempt to fight against the hormones telling them to keep the baby.” That was said thoughtfully.

“It might be.” John hadn’t thought of it that way, commenting, “Or it just might be because of a movie that everyone finds familiar.”

“Popular culture?”

“Yes.” John watched his friend assess the information. Would it remain? Or would it be deleted? “Sherlock?” As his flatmate looked up in response, John asked, “Would you be willing to go through what these women are doing for the chance to raise a child?” It wasn’t conversation exactly, but John had wondered about it. John Watson wondered if he would be able to go through what the surrogates were doing without being driven mad.

“Transport, John.” It wasn’t a bored response. Again, thoughtful.

They had been invited to join the Initiative’s doctors for dinner. Interviews with the doctors and the rest of the medical staff would take place the day after next. A room, similar to those assigned to the surrogates, was made available to the pair in the Staff Quarters. John dropped on one of the twin beds, exhausted. Sherlock was opening John’s laptop and typing. John still changed passwords, but had ceased to consider the laptop as solely his own anymore. “John?” The doctor took a deep breath, then grumbled at his flatmate to indicate attention. “Have you made a decision yet?” Sherlock asked with remarkably little expression. He did not need to be more explicit about which decision.

“Would it make a difference if I had?” John pushed, just a little, his voice slightly muffled by bedclothes.

“I will not take this on without your full consent and support, John.” That was mildly reproachful. “It is clear that your participation will be invaluable”.

“Then, yes.”

“Yes, we may go ahead with this, and adopt one of the children? Or yes, you have made a decision?” He was being examined for his reaction, and John felt oddly fond of the impossible man watching him.

Laughing, John’s repeated “yes” was blurred by the bed. The blond doctor flopped over onto his back, grinning at Sherlock’s less than pleased expression. “Alright, yes. We should discuss exactly which baby we will be taking home with us at the end of The Initiative.”

Sherlock Holmes cleared his throat. “I have made a chart of the ten most appropriate, depending on our decision to adopt a girl or a boy…”

They had only started discussing the possibilities when the call came, and John dragged Sherlock to dinner.


	12. Dinner conversation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, Lunamoth116 for beta-ing!

Dinner with the doctors had been as interesting as any semiformal function with Sherlock could be. He knew the secrets, the little lies, the petty ambitions. These medical men and women were good at their chosen fields. They were human. What many were not was moral. Unfair to judge all of the doctors by this sampling, John thought. Each rotation of medical staff mixed them up a bit. No one was in a rut of working only with any particular other. Morality had nothing to do with the surrogates. For many of the doctors, a sense of right and wrong was completely missing from their lives beyond this job. Sherlock had them pegged within seconds of entering the room. John wondered how Culverton Smith had managed to find so many supremely selfish people for his project.

John listened to the excited discussions of “necessary human testing”, about breakthrough research being done in China. There were comments about patenting research, about rights to outcomes on a cellular level, and a fair amount of description of past patients. Normal enough, but to many of the doctors present the ends justified any means necessary. A body was a body, and a healthy matching kidney was just that. No need to ensure the provenance was correct beyond that it was technically legal for use.

The world’s only consulting detective did not insult them - not a one - to their faces. Each inference or deduction was sent to John via text at some point in the course of the evening. John did not see Sherlock typing, and had stopped reading his phone after cocktails were over, setting it to silent after sending a text to his flatmate that he’d read them all when he was not compromised by the fact that he was in current conversation with the men and women who might be delivering “our child”. John was not subtle, but he was thorough. The smile that crossed Holmes’s face on receipt of John’s message - an appreciative smirk, smug and satisfied - buoyed the former Army Surgeon through an evening of arrogant comparisons between each gynecologist’s or obstetrician’s exceedingly profitable practice, and John’s experiences in service to his country, and at the clinic.

Not that John was striving to be charitable, but these people had been trapped in this facility with each other for the month. Turning each conversation toward a colleague gave John his own insight into the workings of the Initiative. Gossip was useful at times. Cocktails - some of them incredibly complicated - greased the wheels, so to speak.

John and Sherlock had split up to speak to as many of the medical doctors as possible. They were the only members of the staff present. Doctors did not mix socially with the other human beings of the facility. Not even the Facility Coordinator had been invited, Sherlock told John later. Sherlock moved through the group, confident, shark-like in his efficiency if not his manner. Outgoing, charming, smiling, likeable, attractive to men and women alike, Sherlock Holmes was unlike John had ever seen him. It was distracting.

As was Sherlock’s falsely cheerful grin and wink when John made his way past him toward a heavy, mustached, older man seated with his foot up at the end of the room. An older woman stood by him, had fetched the man’s drink, and was making quiet conversation as John approached. “Mary Morstan.” The woman held out her hand to be shaken.

“Doctor Mary Morstan,” corrected the seated man.

John smiled at the woman, white-haired, but with a young face; he could not settle on an age for her. “What speciality?” he asked as he took her hand. It was firm and cool.

“Literature.” That said with an impish grin. Dr. Morstan’s voice was a cool contralto. “My doctorate was on _The Advance of Western Women Writers of the Twentieth-Century_.”

“Mary is one of the midwives at the Initiative, Dr. Watson,” the decidedly ginger man chuckled. “Invited to dinner tonight by virtue of being my wife.”

“Lovely to meet you, Dr. Morstan.” John had a moment of revelation, of inclusion.

“Thank you! May I present my husband -” Dr. Morstan seemed about to burst, as she introduced “- Dr. John Watson.”

John blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

“My name is John James Watson, Jr., pediatrician.” The ginger mustache jumped as the man grinned, obviously tickled at the joke, and inviting John to join it in appreciation. “But please, call me Jack.”

John began to laugh. “American?” he asked, and received a nod. “Military service?”

“United States Army. Not overseas, however. Fort Benning, Georgia.”

John studied the leg propped on a chair and the cane beside it. “Gout?”

“Exactly so!” It obviously delighted Jack Watson that John had evaluated the situation correctly. “I am an eater. Living in Georgia, one learns to love peanuts and pork. Shouldn’t eat them, but I still get the cravings.”

The talk turned and twisted through a multitude of subjects, including the first of the J.K. Rowling books that John had begun - donated so graciously by Harry. Time passed quickly now, and they were called to table all too soon. The food was edible, incredibly so. John was placed down the long table, which was not set traditionally, not alternating male and female. Seats seemed to be assigned in no particular order, save that he and Sherlock were separated. To provide the maximum entertainment for the doctors afflicted by cabin fever, John reasoned. Jack Watson confirmed this. “We doctors are only here for a month at a time until the big event. We are not paid extra for it, but the idea is to give each of us some time with our patients before delivery. That month can seem long to some of us.”

“Jack volunteers to be here more often, but then if he wants to come home to his wife, he will just have to find her here for the duration.” Mary Morstan dimpled at them.

Dinner conversation wandered. There were complaints about the support staff, but most of those John could set down to personalities. Some of the medical personnel got along. According to Sherlock quite a number of them had been involved in affairs during the course of their stay. One prominent neonatal surgeon had worked her way through almost all the others, and spent considerable time flirting with Sherlock. John half-expected to see her throw the man down on the table and leap upon him, she was that blatant. Sherlock had given him no sign of needing rescue, so the doctor did his best to concentrate on those seated near him at the table.

John avoided providing personal information like the plague. The only notice of that was from Dr. Watson and his wife, who seemed bent on keeping John laughing with their observations and comments about life in the military, at the facility, and in general. Where they were, the table responded to their good will.

Interesting, seeing the personality types. Competent. Every one of them was more than competent. And to be a doctor, to be a surgeon - able to cut into the human body - one had to have some element of arrogance installed in one’s makeup. Halfway through dinner John wished he could just open up his phone and read all the less-than-obvious secrets that each had thought hidden. It would have been more fun to joke with Sherlock about it.

Sherlock Holmes was charming. Aside from his constant texting, which John heard him vaguely attribute to necessary work for his “job in the City”, he smiled and flirted and was entirely too interested in each of the dinner companions for their own good. Not one sharp word or inconvenient deduction passed his lips through the dinner. His fingers - now, that was another story.

Trouble was, when John and Sherlock returned to their quarters after dinner, John was too exhausted for much discussion, let alone reading through Sherlock’s texts. Being onstage wears at a man. At the least, it wore at him. Sherlock, of course, was not ready for sleep. His pacing, the manic energy guaranteed to keep John awake. “John -” he would not let the doctor sleep, not yet “- you need a shower.”

“No, Sherlock, time for bed.” John was already lying down, eyes closed, hair a rumpled mess. 

The bed could have been more comfortable. It was solid, like bedrock. John had slept on sand. Dig a hole for your hip, and you’re pretty good. Sand would have been preferable to the unyielding state of the mattress. The doctor was considering the floor as an option, but with Sherlock up and pacing, that was clearly not a good choice. “I insist,” his daft flatmate said emphatically. 

John opened his eyes and looked at the nod Sherlock made toward the shower. “Right. You won’t let me sleep until I do, will you?” John sat up, grabbed his kit and went into the small shower room. Leaning against the vanity, John took a deep breath. Sherlock was not long in joining him, reaching past to turn the tiny shower on full. Steam began to fill the small room immediately. Sherlock leaned close to speak quietly: “We have been watched all day.”

John raised an interested sand-coloured eyebrow, waiting for Sherlock to go on. The man had been watching John’s expression and continued, “Beyond the normal, John. Aside from the flirtatious women, the bored search for anything of interest from the staff here. You have seen but you do not observe. No one has questioned why we are here. They accept what they have been told, or do not think at all. Or they are waiting.”

“Do you expect to be attacked?” John asked thoughtfully.

“No,” Sherlock spoke slowly. “But I would like to know who is so curious about us, yet won’t ask directly.”

“Right,” John agreed. A yawn snuck through. “Meanwhile, try to sleep, Sherlock.”

Shooing his flatmate out of the entirely too tiny room, John began to undress. The shower was short, though the water remained enjoyably hot. The bed, when he returned to it, was still rocklike. John buried his head under covers and pillow, managed to block out at least the light from the bedside table, and drifted off to a deep and not particularly restful sleep.


	13. The Watson Contingent

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John finishes interviewing the surrogates, and Sherlock points out some hazards of living in a mad scientists dream.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, Lunamoth116 for doing the heavy beta-lifting.

John woke up the next morning realizing why the surrogates had all giggled when they met him. Dr. John Watson. Last night Jack had referred to John as “my twin”. John found it amusing. Sherlock had blinked when John commented about it, and sighed. “No, John. You are unique,” his flatmate told John with a tiny smile.

Watson’s contingent went, if anything, more quickly than the first day. John was expecting the response to his name, but a surrogate with long straight, sand-coloured blonde hair made him laugh when she told him, “We’ve decided to call our other Dr. Watson ‘Dr. Mustache Watson’. Some of us in Dorm 3 wanted to call him ‘Proper Dr. Watson’, but most everyone didn’t get it.”

Before Sherlock could ask, John explained, “ _Doctor Who_ reference, Sherlock. Like ‘don’t blink’.” He turned to the surrogate and commented, “We have, of course, seen the shirts and posters from the Weeping Angels episodes. Among other things.”

The surrogate giggled again, sharing a commiserating look with the doctor. “So few do truly understand. Who is your doctor?”

“Tom Baker, I suppose. Yours?” John was not particularly a fan, but Sarah was, so John, who had watched as a child, had learned the new language. Usually Tom Baker was a safe bet.

“Oh, David Tennant! Dead sexy.” The admission was confiding.

“Not my area.” John smiled, avoiding a look at Sherlock. Dredging up the time he had watched the new show at Sarah’s, he said, “I liked Rose.”

Sherlock, from his perch on a wheeled stool, legs out to the side stork-like, stated, “No one asks me which doctor is mine.”

John laughed. “It never occurred to me.” He looked at his friend, dark hair in messy curls, those cheekbones. Fondness was evident in his voice as he asked, “Who is it then?”

The surrogate tried to guess. “Christopher Eccleston!”

“William Hartnell.” The smug tone matched a superior smirk.

After she had gone, John confronted the man, “You don’t watch _Doctor Who_! You’ve never watched _Doctor Who_. How did you know who the first doctor was?”

“I never said that I did, John. Neither did you. She assumed, and you let her go on with that assumption. I also know that you don’t much care for the program, or you would have forced me to watch it at some point in the last few years.”

“Can’t be worse than the crap telly you watch. Reality shows my arse,” John snorted.

“Needs must, as the devil drives, John. It cannot hurt for the women to see us as human and interested, rather than standoffish, governmental, bureaucratic paper pushers,” Sherlock pointed out. “It also allows for a small amount of superiority on her part. We are old-school. She and the other women in Dorm 3 are not. While they enlighten us, we can gain some data.”

It was a long day. The last eight surrogates were the women carrying Harry’s eggs, scheduled deliberately. No twins among those eight, and the “hosts” (as John found himself thinking uneasily) seemed pleasant enough. Five girls, three boys in utero. Sherlock asked to touch each time, and was given permission. John, drawn into it as well, wondered at the thought that his sister’s genetics were moving beneath his hands, growing inside each of these women. 

Sherlock listened to the questions that John asked, the replies, and then when the discussion had become a two-way conversation between the woman and the doctor, the tall, thin man knelt by the women’s bellies and began to speak, softly and in French. John had no idea what his flatmate was saying to the unborn children, and clearly the surrogates did not either. “English is good enough for me, mate!” That was a cosy confidence from the last surrogate as they watched that dark head of curls next to her stomach, which was covered in an oversized tee shirt declaring, “I’ll be more fun when I can drink again!”.

The doctor had gotten used to her next remark: “So. You boys single?” John had not expected that the surrogates would have undergone six months of enforced celibacy. More than that, actually. The standard tactic - to politely put a professional distance, to answer noncommittally - seemed to work well enough. The flirting was, however, blatant, and a little overwhelming. Sherlock had commented on it early on, comparing it to the predatory neurosurgeon at dinner the night before.

After this one had been ushered out, John turned to find his partner watching him, expression blank. “What is it?”

The blank face changed to an eagle look, sharp and piercing. The man John thought he knew better than almost everyone did not pretend to misunderstand. “It is -” a pause to consolidate, not to prevaricate “- a disconnect. These women are remarkably like you, John. Several of them more alike than your sister.”

John finished a sentence in his notes, then clicked the pen closed and stuck it in his lab coat pocket. “Well, Harry looks more like my dad. Her hair would be the same shade as Dad’s - dark brown - if she hadn’t dyed it blonde.”

“I was not speaking of looks. Possibly it is the surrogates who are not making advances who are most like you. Which is odd, considering your penchant for cheesy pickup lines. There is a common thread. These women were selected to be caregivers, even if only until the babies are born. You are a caretaker as well.” Sherlock was thoughtful.

“Splendid job I’m doing when I can’t get you to sleep or eat,” John pointed out.

“Yes, well -” the smirk was familiar, the tone self-satisfied “- I dare say you’ve done better than Mycroft with it.”

“Did you see this just in the women who physically resemble me?” John could not keep amusement out of the question as he gathered his laptop and bits of odds and ends.

“Of course, not,” scoffed the detective. “Weren’t you listening? This is not about looks. It is evident in you, and to a small extent in Lestrade, that you watch out for other people. Not all of these women, of course, display the attitude, and it does translate into your manner when you are interacting with them. Yes, the physical similarity is there. One of the surrogates carrying Harry’s eggs seemed to have it the most of the women. It was oddly like watching you speak to a female version of yourself.”

“Hmm.” John could think of no way to respond.

“On another note, before we go back to the room, have you noticed that we are housed in an easily secured area? Far simpler to secure from outside than the dormitories, which are meant to be defended?” Sherlock was moving about the room, too much built-up energy.

John nodded. “There are marks on the ceilings. Near each of the air vent gratings in the hallways. Here, in the dormitory areas, staff areas, the labs, everywhere. Any idea what those were?”

Sherlock grinned, and it was sharp and fierce. “I believe that the entire facility was rigged to gas the inhabitants in case of a need for removal.”

A nod again. “Lethal, if it was Moriarty.” That it was a comment, not a question was unsurprising. They both knew Moriarty’s valuation of human life.

“I texted Mycroft about it, and he said that an interesting variety of death traps were removed when the British Government took over the Initiative.” Mycroft’s brother made a face. “A number of listening devices were installed as well. However, the bugs in our room are not Mycroft’s. Or rather, I should say that not only Mycroft’s listening devices are in our room. The alien devices are crude and not placed professionally.”

“Someone, other than Mycroft -” John said that last bit loudly and distinctly for the British Government’s own benefit “- is interested in what we’ve been saying. The surrogates have no access, but it would be easy enough for one of the doctors, the cleaning staff, the medical or support staff to enter, plant the bug, then leave.”

“Crude, but interesting. By the way, there is not one surrogate or medical person here who does not know who I am, and by default, who you are. They are also aware that I am the donor for these babies. It is evident in their reaction to my presence, and to your questions. It was apparent last night at dinner as well, although it was not brought out in the open.” Sherlock paused for a moment, before asking, “You have made plans for us to eat dinner with the midwives?”

John nodded. “I will continue to ask for medical specifics regarding childbirth. Possibly for problems that could occur. You could flirt a bit more with your fans.”

John’s flatmate looked down his nose. “Dr. Morstan seems to like you a great deal.”

“Holmes, I am not going to try to get a leg over with a married woman. She obviously loves her husband,” John protested, “and it would be unprofessional in the extreme to try to pull any of the surrogates.”

“Hmmmm.” The response was not one that John could decipher.


	14. Family Style

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to Lunamoth116 for beta-ing, and also some interesting mental pictures!

Their first sight of Culverton Smith came during their dinner with the midwives. As an event, this meal was far less formal than their evening with the Initiative's doctors. Several women had set up a large table in the recreation area, covering it with four brightly-colored cloths. Food - prepared in the facility kitchen and sent over - was what Dr. Morstan called “New England Boiled”; a boneless beef roast braised in beer with potatoes, carrots and onions, and served with bread and butter. Plain white ceramic bowls of food were passed around, the diners served themselves, and seats were not assigned.

John and Sherlock, seated in the middle, were not the only men present. Dr. Jack Watson appeared to a warm kiss of welcome from his wife, and the cadaverous man who had given their initial tour was chatting with a small, dark, round woman when Sherlock and John arrived. Mister Thomson - “No ‘p’,” he said with a smile, though John did not get the allusion - was a joker. He was also completely at home with the dozen midwives.

Thomson labored in his post with degrees in management, but was not considered a “professional” by the ‘Medical Staff’ (air quotes, he assured the table, supplied by the medical doctors), who had told him they would have preferred a degree in medicine in whoever had oversight of the facility. “That’s okay, honey,” said a woman shaped like a cottage loaf, patting the man’s skinny arm as she went on, “They keep saying we’re not ‘Medical Professionals’ either.”

John was distracted by the thought that the Institute’s manager was thinner than Sherlock. Taking a mouthful of flavorful beef he pulled his wandering mind back, only to have his eye caught by Sherlock, eyebrow cocked as the skinny detective reached for the platter of potatoes and smilingly passed it to the skeletal manager.

It was a chatty group. Sherlock watched John fitting in with a beguiling grin. The masculine input from John, Jack and Thomson was treated with humour, and the jokes flowed back and forth in the style of a tennis volley. Finally, after the cloths were cleared, one of the older women looked round the table and asked the question that everyone else had avoided: “What are you gentlemen doing here, really?”

“Eating dinner, surely,” Sherlock chuckled, then took a pull of the dark beer served with the meal.

“As if the picking you were doing could be called eating,” the woman clucked, then said, “Why are we being audited? You’re not from the government.”

“Do you think we’re spies, Martha?” Sherlock was giving her a very sharp look.

“Doctor Smith disappears overnight after poking his nose into everything for months. We get bureaucrats showing up weekly for a quarter, and then nothing for a fortnight until you two appear, asking Dr. Smith’s ‘test subjects’ if they’re being well treated and happy?”

Heads nodded up and down the table, though Jack Watson, his wife, and Mr. Thomson were leaning back watching the interaction. John went with honesty, explaining, “I’m not here as any governmental task force. I’m just a discharged Army Doctor who does locum work to supplement the pension. I found out about the Initiative and shot my mouth off about caring for the babies who are going to be born from this.” John could feel Sherlock’s attention heavy and watchful. “And the surrogates. They said that I could see to it that nothing untoward was going on. Which is why I’m here. Asking questions.”

A small thin Asian woman blew a raspberry. “We read your blog, Dr. Watson. We know who Sherlock Holmes is.”

There was a chorus of “What mystery are you solving now?” as their interrogators leaned forward.

“You read my blog?” John was uncertain whether to be pleased or shocked.

“Everyone reads your blog, John,” Sherlock drawled, “as you should realize by now,” which brought general laughter, but did not deter the women from demanding to know “what they were about”.

A lone voice piped up, “And why are you in charge of the investigation? Why isn’t Sherlock?”

That made John laugh. Sherlock grinned at his flatmate before speaking: “John is in charge because he wanted to ensure that everything was on the up and up here. This is John’s project, not mine.”

That served only to bring their attention to bear on the dark-haired man. “If it’s his project, then why are you here? You did say you weren’t dating.”

John huffed, not really in surprise. “Why does everyone think that? Not gay, thank you. Dating no one at the moment.”

There was cackling. Then a number of ribald comments were dumped over their heads before: “I think he’s part of this somehow. Grown men don’t just rub pregnant women’s bellies for luck.”

“Not for luck.” Sherlock was shocked. “For data!”

John giggled at the uproar. Until Dr. Morstan interjected, “Sherlock is the sperm donor, isn’t he?”

“I don’t see why that would involve him,” the cottage loaf woman huffed. “Donors generally aren’t, you know. Involved after the donation. Not if they're not specifically trying for a baby.”

Sherlock placed his long-fingered hands on the table, flat before him. “It is true that I am the sole provider of the male half of DNA for this project. The number of donors for the female side is extremely limited as well. Surely this qualifies as a mystery, enough for me to become interested in whatever Dr. Smith was doing here?”

Smith - from the expressions of disgust - was not popular. “He wasn’t even a medical doctor,” one woman proclaimed. “Well, not _human_ medicine, anyway.”

“What do you mean?” Sherlock tilted his head, intrigued.

“My Eveline is on the cleaning staff,” the older woman, Martha, answered for her. “She saw his diploma when she was assigned to take care of his rooms. He had it hidden away. Well, he thought it was hidden, but my girl knows how to clean right. None of this swish the dust rag around in the air and think that does the job. His degree is in veterinary medicine.” That brought a gale of laughter. Dr. Smith was apparently not well-liked.

“He fooled the ‘professionals’ well enough,” scoffed the round, dark woman.

“What do you mean?” It was John's turn to ask.

Mary Morstan answered him: “They have no idea he was a vet. He had them well fooled. All his interview questions were from a sheet of paper. Same as for the midwives. Mr. Thomson was responsible for all the other hirings.”

Thomson nodded vigorously. “Thought it was odd that he’d listen to what they said, then come back later with a response. Not exactly a con man, as he wasn’t so charming.” The coordinator received a round of agreement to that.

John eyed the mustached Dr. Watson, who was leaning back in his chair, arm around his wife’s shoulders, content to watch. “Do you have an opinion on the Doctor from the medical doctor side, Jack?”

”Proper” Dr. Jack Watson grinned, then huffed out through his ginger-and-silver mustache. “Never met the man. ” It was an almost grudging admission. “I replaced a pediatrician who became horribly ill, and was removed after a quarantine. Highly contagious. In all the fuss and feathers Dr. Smith disappeared and this new lot took over. They hired me on Mary’s recommendation.”

John meant to ask further, but caught a look from Sherlock and subsided. His flatmate raised an elegant, pale hand and the room quieted. “Much as I would love to hear about the lamented loss of your Dr. Culverton Smith...” The drawl was nearly as elegant, and drew John’s complete attention. The man was going to perform some sort of grandstand play, and John took a fortifying draught from his own beer. “Our presence here is much as John has said. However, as you have stated, I do not generally wander about in secure medical facilities rubbing pregnant bellies ‘for luck’. When I heard about the Initiative I made a formal application to adopt one of the babies. Even though I signed the release they are, after all, my children.”

It was, from the shocked expressions, open mouths, and wide eyes, the last thing that the population present had expected to hear. A moment of silence, then the storming rush of exclamations, questions, and excited chattering broke over the room. One woman demanded over the cacophony: “This is not one of your experiments, is it, Sherlock? We’ve heard all about those from John’s blog!”

“Ladies -” Sherlock’s voice did not rise, but it cut through the chatter “- do you honestly believe that John Watson, the man you’ve met here, and whose thoughts you have been reading, apparently, for years, would allow a child into our home for the sake of an experiment?”

John found it daunting. All heads turned to him, all eyes examined him in detail. Then, a baffled question came: “You’re not letting him do this alone, are you?”

“Hm.” John cleared his throat. “No. Sherlock and I would both adopt the baby.” Simple. Short. To the point.

“So -” it was the older woman, Martha “- you’re here…shopping?”

No!” John grabbed hold of his temper, before saying calmly, “No, Martha. We are here because I made a fuss about ensuring that this facility was operating ethically. And that the babies and surrogates were being cared for and were not the subject of unholy medical experiments.” That last sounded joking, but John was in deadly earnest after Baskerville. What else was there to say?

Sherlock, of course, had to interject: “John is here for ethical reasons. I am here…shopping, you said, Martha? I have been finding this entire venture fascinating.” And there it was. Impossible to defend against that joyous smile. The silence again, but this time there were small smiles shot between the women. Sherlock quirked that enormously expressive eyebrow. “Ladies, do not pretend that you are unaware of the procedures for adoption. John and I, and our flat, have been the subject of intense scrutiny by a myriad of social service agencies. The skull on the mantlepiece gave them pause...” and the consulting detective gave them a cheeky grin, receiving several in response.

“As well, our partnership has been discerned to be able to provide for a larger family. We are at the top of the list for adopting one of these children. I could hardly bring home all sixty-three of them; the flat isn’t that large, and we are only two men, no matter how much of a genius I am, nor how good Dr. Watson is as a doctor. You know that prospective parents do meet and speak to the mother prior to adoption if at all possible. I have simply latched on to Dr. Watson’s coattails to expedite the process. You asked why John is in charge? Because he is truly here for the reason he stated. I? I am here for curiosity's sake. And to learn about the process. As close to first hand -” there was a wink “- as I may. Considering that I am a parent without benefit of the intimate relationship usually bringing about that state.”

The chatter before had been mild compared to the vociferous discussion that ensued. Several of the midwives expressed concerns, and John did his best to allay those - rather successfully, he thought. A good deal of information was being thrown in Sherlock’s direction, as well as some lecturing, some old wives’ tales, and extremely personal questioning. 

John, toward the end, found himself sitting apart with Jack Watson and Thomson observing the swirl of byplay, raucous at times, thoughtful at others, in the clutch of women surrounding Sherlock Holmes. Holmes seemed to be entirely present, interested and more socially involved than John had seen him for anything other than one of his cases. It reminded John of watching Sherlock in a pub near the gym his flatmate had taken him to for an examination of the boxers training there. Sherlock miraculously fit in both with the athletes and with the men cheering their teams in a match.

It wasn’t that Sherlock was anything but masculine, or anything but himself. The crux of it was that Sherlock was observing them all, responding appropriately. It brought home that the man could and did know how to behave. That he was rude to Sally and Anderson, smug and familiar with Greg Lestrade, and so utterly himself with John, were all aspects of their importance in his life. Sally and Anderson, Sherlock found them wanting. Greg, John suspected, was a good deal more important emotionally to Sherlock than the man wanted to admit. John caught a look of mischief sent his way from beneath those expressive dark brows, and grinned back.

“He’s set the fox in the henhouse now, hasn’t he?” Jack Watson refreshed John’s beer, then his own and Thomson’s.

Thomson drank deep, then replied, “He’s a brave man. Braver to set off that rumble than I would be.”

“Do you have any children of your own, Thomson?” John swallowed some beer and gave a nod to his flatmate.

Thomson laughed. “Yes, but they’re all grown. My wife died. Cancer. I see my kids and grandkids mostly on holidays. Not with this position, of course, but there will be time afterwards.”

“Before you ask, John -” Jack waved to indicate Mary, who was sitting next to Sherlock, her head bowed to listen to a question “- our children are grown as well. Married into the military, sons and daughter, all three of them. Not certain how I would have managed without my wife.”

Thomson made a noise in agreement. Jack looked piercingly at John, before asking, “How will you manage without a wife? You indicated last night that you and Sherlock are not in a -” there was a search for the word “- relationship.”

John sighed the answer: “Not for sex, Jack. We’re close friends. I date women. And Sherlock and I have planned for when I find myself...” Again that scrabble for a socially acceptable way to say it. Bluntness might be the thing. Then again, there was always: “If I find the right woman and settle down, she would have to be part of the parenting. Sherlock knows I might marry. I don’t believe he ever will. Marry, that is.”

The discussion at the table was now involving a good deal of motioning - hands, arms, at one point even feet were involved. Sherlock’s dark curls stood out above the shorter women’s heads. John tried to imagine the flat with Sherlock and a wife. Irene Adler presented herself only to be thoroughly squashed by a bubble of dislike from John. The Woman would never fit into the cosy, messy world of 221B. Molly Hooper, then? No, Sherlock would steamroll right over Molly, even if she had gotten better at standing up to the man. No woman would ever, John ruminated, put up with Sherlock telling her to “shut up”, as the doctor could hear in his memory from when Sherlock had told Mrs. Hudson: “Do, in fact, shut up, Mrs. Hudson.”

Just John. John wasn’t sure why he put up with it. Taking another drink of his beer, the man gave a mental sigh and admitted it. Danger, adventure, his friend. John could not think of what he’d rather be doing than following that madman. The three years without him had been difficult. Pulling himself up short, John refused to dwell on that time, nor on the period of…well, call it readjustment afterwards.

John turned with a smile to the men beside him. “So. Culverton Smith, was it? Odd name. Odd-sounding man. What do all you gents know about him?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry to take so long to update. Got caught up in Labor Day and reading fan fic. Next chapter was written before this one, so it will be up on Monday.


	15. Search and Rescue

John jerked his eyes open, expecting to see the monster out of his nightmare. It was dark. Scrabbling for his mobile in the unexpected blackness, he squinted to see two A.M. on the phone’s screen. Dropping the mobile back onto the bedside table, John sat up, stretching. Silence. Not the rustle of another body in the twin bed next to his, nor the sound of his flatmate pacing. Sherlock had been known to do that in as close to a complete blackout as any place in London could provide, but John more expected to sleep with the light on when the genius was being nocturnal this trip.

The light turned on and proved that Sherlock’s bed was made, unused, undisturbed. John shifted up, groggy from a short sleep plump with disturbing images. The majority involved Culverton Smith, whom the doctor had never seen: hairy all over, filed teeth, and fingernails like syringes, carrying a forceps and a bag of horse pills, appearing out of the darkness. Scratching his own - short and carefully maintained fingernails - through the thatch on his head, John fumbled on the nightstand again for his mobile. No text from his partner.

“Where are you? JW”

“Aliens. Dorm 3. SH”

John blinked to clear the sleep sand, and threw the covers back. Pulling trousers over his boxers, and a jumper down over his head, the sleepy man palmed the lock and stumbled out, barefoot, into the partially-lit hallway. Keeping to a day and night schedule with the lights to save energy was a boon. No glaring fluorescents to stab his just-wakened eyes.

At the exit to the Staff dormitories John acquired an escort. He was an auditor, accorded all access. Even so, men were still not allowed unescorted to the Surrogates’ Dormitories, and the guard was a woman, slightly taller than John, her brown hair braided tightly back in the French style. All of the hallways were nighttime-dim. The quiet broke around their footsteps, John's padding and flesh against tile, the guard's echoing in a regular tapping. When the guard unlocked the door to Dormitory Three and opened it for John, they could hear noise down the hallway. Loud indeed if they could hear it from here, and then a scream, high-pitched and full of terror.

Together the guard and John sprinted for the entrance to the common area, the security guard throwing the door open with force, which rebounded off the wall into her outstretched arm. There was darkness, the only light from the huge screen that was Dorm 3’s distinctive feature, a woman frozen on the screen in mid-pronouncement surrounded by metal.

Faces blinked up at them from all over the room, reflecting the light of the screen. “Dr. Watson?” Mary Morstan’s amused deep voice from a corner brought the doctor out of his frozen startlement.

“Uh. Hmm. I was looking for…” it was stuttered. This was not something that John could take on his Army persona for.

“Here, John.” Sherlock was clearly amused. His flatmate and friend was seated at an end of the comfortable couch, long arms wrapped about his knees, two women taking up the rest of the extended piece of furniture, their legs curled under them. That did not look comfortable for women six months along. “Thank you, Justine,” Sherlock addressed the security guard who was trying to conceal a grin. “Dr. Morstan will remain as our duenna.”

“Yes, sir!” and Justine disappeared as the room full of pregnant women shifted and re-sorted, taking advantage of the break to use facilities or pass around bowls of fruit.

“We have watched _Alien_ , and are finishing _Aliens_. Next will be _Alien 3_ , and finally _Alien: Resurrection_. I have been assured that the _Predator_ crossovers are not relevant. Do join us, John.” Sherlock invited as though this were his own territory.

Chorusing female voices agreed, seconding the invitation, and the two women on the couch flowed aside, graceful in spite of pregnancy weight, to make room for John next to Sherlock. The consulting detective was perched on the sofa cushion, clasping knees, long bare feet poking out from the hems of navy blue pajama bottoms, while above was a cream-colored tee, and his ubiquitous silk dressing gown.

John sat down, looking round. A film night. Sherlock Holmes at a film night with, John counted, fifteen pregnant women, as well as the midwife doing crochet work in a comfy chair in a back corner. Clearing his throat John asked belatedly, “If you ladies don’t mind?”

Of course! He was welcome! The door to the hallway was closed, and the movie restarted from the point where John and Justine had broken in. John remembered seeing these images long years ago. He had been with a date, he remembered. The audience lost several viewers just before the third film started. John, intensely aware of Sherlock staring at the screen to his right, and the two bodies radiating heat to his left, was oddly comfortable. In spite of the movie, the adrenaline was leaving John, and he began breathing calmly and heavily soon after the opening of the film. It had been a long day. The room was warm. Snoring came soon after to amused looks from the women and an elbow from Sherlock to the slumping ribs beside him. The jab caused John to fold over, and sliding down, his head - mouth now closed and the doctor no longer snoring - came to rest against the taller man’s arm. That pulled Sherlock’s attention from the screen.

After consideration, and an eye still on the screen, the dark-haired man shifted, moving the doctor’s head to a position more comfortable for them both, sand colored, short haired head on Sherlock’s chest, the detective’s arm slung around his flatmate’s shoulders. John gave a soft sigh and relaxed, and Sherlock’s mouth curled up at the corners.

John was awakened by early sun, watery and grey, but obvious, through the slit of window high in the common room wall. He was wrapped in a bright orange, and rather scratchy, afghan. Appropriate? He giggled quietly, thinking “Shock Afghan”. Bare feet were up on the sofa, head pillowed comfortably. He could just go back to sleep. Solid pillow, though. Not unyielding enough to be the arm of the sofa. Someone’s leg. John’s head was pillowed on Sherlock’s lap. “Good morning, John.” That quiet baritone sounded over-loud in the silent room.

“Sherlock!” John sat up quickly, tucking his cold feet under the knit covering. “Film’s over, then?” Obviously. “Why didn’t you wake me?”

“Thinking.” His flatmate was deadpan. “Mavis took photographs.” The gentle warning was accompanied by a quick grin that appeared and disappeared in a moment. 

John moaned. “Did you draw on my face or what? Why would she take photos?”

“I believe blackmail material was mentioned. No one has altered your face -” the grin again “- and the ‘ladies’, as you called them, thought it was ‘cute’.”

Sherlock had watched the fourth film with John’s head resting now in his lap, Sherlock’s long pale fingers petting through John’s sand-coloured hair. Soft, and in the light of the film the differences between the blond and the grey were revealed. The stroking seemed to aid John in relaxing, and it brought a calm to Sherlock as well. It was enjoyable.

The “ladies” had been remarkably thoughtful after the movie had ended. They had exited quietly. Granted, there were only five surrogates and Dr. Morstan by that point in time. Dr. Morstan was still with them, a vigilant escort, sitting in the oddly patterned overstuffed chair with her own growing afghan of greens and blues overflowing her lap. There was a quiet rustle as her fingers maneuvered the metal hook through wool.

One of the surrogates had paused to look down on her way to bed. “Are you two together then? You look so comfortable with him.”

“John -” Sherlock was loud enough to be heard, but pitched to leave his flatmate asleep, “- would be mortified to be discovered in this position.” It was an honest answer. Should he add more? After a pause the tall, thin man had said, “John is unattached.”

Not accurate, surely. John had attachments. To him, to D.I. Lestrade. To Mrs. Hudson. No sexual relationships currently. Speculative looks then from the five surrogates. Turning, Sherlock had met Mary Morstan’s knowing look. Dr. Morstan now cleared her throat, making John jump. He had not noticed her presence. “Are you gentlemen ready to return to the staff area?” Calm, aware, even after staying the night in a corner chair.

“Oh.” John rubbed a hand over his head. “Yeah, right.”

They left, the orange afghan folded neatly on the sofa. John waited until the door had closed behind them, the hallway brightening as the daytime settings clicked on. “What did you think of the films, then?”

“Interesting to begin. Atmospheric. I can see why you are fond of the second, John. Action and danger. A shorter but heroic leading man. He looked somewhat like you. The science was shoddy, of course, and worsened throughout the course of the series.”

Well, that was less vitriolic than John had expected. “Have you slept at all since we got here, Sherlock?” John palmed the lock to their room. Moving forward he bumped his nose on the door, which had not opened. “What the…”

“John.” Sherlock’s eyes flicked upwards to examine a red square of lighted plastic set into the wall above their door. Hadn’t that been white when they’d taken the room? “Doctor Morstan?” asked the detective, indicating the red with a lift of his eyebrows.

“Oh!” Dr. Morstan looked shocked, rather than startled. “That’s a quarantine sign,” she explained.”

“Why would our room be quarantined?” John asked himself, then louder, as he followed Sherlock, who had taken off down the hall: “Why would our room be quarantined? Did you bring one of your experiments with you?”

Sherlock was ignoring him, had reached the security station, pushed past the guard sitting in his chair, gone back to the monitors, and begun to check the system.

Dr. Morstan cleared her throat. “Tony can unlock your door for you. I’m not sure what would have set off a quarantine alert, though.”

Sherlock spoke up: “At 2:35 A.M. last night the room was locked, and labeled quarantined. No meta data to suggest who had instituted the lockdown, but the warning code should have come up on the security boards.”

The guard put in: “Nobody looks at the boards until Mr. Thomson comes in at 8 A.M., sir. It’s just routine.”

Sherlock was sitting in the guard’s seat now, accessing the cameras from the early hours. “There you are, John, leaving the room.” Indeed, John looked rumpled, sleepy, pulling the door solidly shut behind him, then shuffling barefoot down the hallway toward this station.

“Two A.M., that’s when I texted you.” John was anything but sleepy now.

At 2:15 the camera jittered, a black bar of static rolling down the image to a new time code, 2:40. “Two-twenty is when Justine would have done her rounds. Nobody in this office for about twenty-five minutes,” offered the pinecone of a security guard. 

“Except that Justine -” Sherlock began.

“Was walking me to you at about that time, and wouldn’t have gotten back until well after 2:30. Especially not if she put her rounds in after leaving Dormitory 3.” John shared a glance with Sherlock.

“No, Dr. Morstan, I believe that your quarantine specialists are due for a drill. Don’t you, Doctor Watson?” Sherlock drawled. “Thank you for your assistance. I expect you will want to return to your own quarters now.” Dismissed, Mary could only go with good grace and a puzzled smile.

Mr. Thomson was awake, drinking coffee and reading the news on his laptop when they tracked him down in the cafeteria. The area was filled with staff coming off shift, preparing to go on shift, coworkers seated on hard garish plastic chairs eating, drinking coffee or tea, and conversing quietly. Sherlock stepped behind John, letting the doctor take the lead. John stepped into his aura of command, asking to speak to the Coordinator in his office.

 _Well_ , Sherlock thought, rubbing long slender fingers together. Interesting. And really, he and John should have expected it.


	16. The Game is Afoot

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, beta Lunamoth116!

“Quarantine protocol?” John was crisp - not hurried, brisk rather.

Sherlock enjoyed watching John take on this aspect. Now the short, former Army Captain and Coordinator Thomson were moving to initiate investigation, impressively contained, of the “questionable circumstances” as Thomson put it. In short order they were watching via a camera as fully-suited security had sealed off the scene and were surveying. “Fine white mist on solid surfaces, sir,” came an eerily modulated voice. “Possibly absorbed by the bedclothes.”

John had initially been given a seat next to Thomson. The maroon plastic, molded to conform to no actual aspect of the human body, felt fuzzy with static, the tubes of steel making up the legs cold even through John’s trousers. John got the bright sharp shock of a spark where Sherlock leaned over his shoulder to see the screen more clearly, invading Thomson’s personal space as well, but leaning against John. “There! Thomson, have your agent look down and to the right. By the door!”

On the floor below a walled thermostat was a metallic mesh dustbin. John hadn’t used it. Sherlock had noted its existence and left it empty. A small container, cylindrical, the top leaning to a side, sat off-center on the bottom of the dustbin. Thomson directed his agent to collect both pieces.

John leant back, such as he could in the horrible chair. It brought him closer to Sherlock, leaning forward for a better view, eyes taking every bit of information in. John’s breath blew out slightly from between barely pursed lips. The nap had not been enough to take the place of a good night’s sleep, but it was more than his insane flatmate had gotten. Not surprising that someone was once again attempting to kill or remove one or both of them.

A deep breath took in the aroma of Sherlock Holmes. Usually his flatmate’s atmosphere was strong with chemicals or the smell of whatever experiment had taken hold of the detective’s fancy. Carbolic, disinfectant. With days free from their normal lifestyle, his friend’s scent was simply of upscale shampoo and body wash, underlying sweat, and the maleness that was Sherlock. It made John all too aware that he had not showered either. A square hand ran through his sand-coloured hair, rumpling it even more; his casual clothing was obviously into a second day of wear. For a man who had served in Afghanistan, then worked for a clinic with a population of working-class and lower-income individuals, there was no comparison. Sand, sweat, fear - all of that scent of memory came to the former Captain with a sudden visceral twist. John whooshed a startled breath, taking comfort in Sherlock’s familiarity next to him, the long, lean, pajama- and dressing gown-clad body crowding out John’s sight of the monitor. With a sigh, pushing back the hideous plastic mess of chair, John went to find tea for the three of them.

Sherlock found waiting for test results annoying. The sharp, clean, antiseptic odor of the laboratory welcomed him, a greeting common to all well-run labs. He would have preferred to remain in his comfortable pajama bottoms, worn and friendly old tee shirt, and robe. The loaned trousers and shirt were too large, necessary to provide length for legs and arms. John’s borrowed trousers, shirt and jumper were rolled up to prevent tripping and knocking glassware over. The morning had been relaxed. Well, relaxed as far as Sherlock was concerned. John was fussed over rescheduling his appointments with the medical staff. Now, though, Sherlock had been reminded of lazy mornings when John had no responsibilities and would slouch about the flat in his robe, boxers and tee shirt. John, while not as fastidious as Sherlock, was clean, picky about toiletries for all that he refused to spend extra money for the products he used.

Fingers flexed as the tall, thin man remembered John’s hair slipping along them, thinking of skin and muscle beneath, and the warmth of blood and bone beneath the skin, known but not seen. Was this what Sherlock would feel for the child, the sentiment he had for John? Surely not, as the tiny person would need holding and feeding and understanding. John did need the last, Sherlock surmised, and the opportunity for the second. Not that Sherlock understood half of what John was thinking, even with the ordinary little mind. John always managed to make him laugh. Well, not always, but when he least expected it.

Bringing his mind firmly back to task, he asked, “Whomever it was attempted to poison us with Tapanuli fever?”

“Melioidosis,” John supplied. “Can be chronic or acute. Should be susceptible to antibiotics, otherwise ninety percent rate of mortality due to septicemia in Third World conditions. In other words, not the hideously dangerous disease I was expecting. Though it could be debilitating in chronic form.”

Sherlock had steepled his fingers as he said thoughtfully, “Why this disease? Why not something equally ludicrous like leprosy or dengue fever?”

John raised an eyebrow. “Could have been much worse. Ebola? Rabies? Then again, it is a category B agent, Sherlock. Considered for germ warfare, but not used so far as I am aware.”

“Dangerous -” the detective ruminated “- enough to have us removed from this facility.”

Thomson’s dark brown eyes practically clicked at them. “It seems so. None of the medical staff, including the midwives, have this information, by the way. Dr. Morstan does not seem the type to speak out of turn, but she will have told her husband. The only thing she knows to tell him is that someone sabotaged your room. With the pathogen already identified, contained, and cleared out, no one will expect that it was anything more than a prank.”

“How did you get the lab results so quickly?” John smiled.

“Investigative Officer, hired specifically for this sort of duty.” Thomson could not keep the justifiable smugness from his tone. “Hired after Mr. Smith went the way of all things. After that last doctor was quarantined and removed. He came down with Tapanuli fever as well.”

Sherlock moved sharply. “Yes, tell us more about that, and the arrival of Dr. Watson -” and after a look at his partner that was amended to “- the American Dr. Watson.”

...

After that it was a matter of ”requesting” replacement clothing and toiletries sent from Baker Street, and waiting for John’s laptop to be sterilized. Sherlock watched in amusement as John fussed over the replacement on loan. Anything, any other gear and John was able to rise above the inconvenience, but being denied that piece of technology brought out the worst. Of course - Sherlock had to be honest - it would have been much the same for the detective if John had lost his mobile. Sherlock never went anywhere without his own, and enjoyed having the use of both. He was pleased that neither had been contaminated.

John was showcasing ill temper by being annoying about food. “No, John.” The doctor’s flatmate’s rolled eyes could be heard in the voice.

“Breakfast, then!” It was not a request.

“Tea.” Their regular morning negotiation.

“Tea and a piece of fruit.” John thought there had been entirely too much of beans on toast and biscuits in both of their diets lately.

“One orange, which is two servings. That makes it breakfast and lunch.” Sherlock was teasing him. 

John sighed and looked up into those sparkling blue eyes, trying to hold on to his bad mood. “Not on a case, Sherlock!” John reminded him as the doctor folded borrowed clothing for the next day in their new lodging, identical to the first set of rooms.

“I will eat at dinner tonight. ” Sherlock’s concession earned a smile from John. 

That smile lasted until after the shower, when John checked his email on a borrowed laptop. There was a note with an attachment, a series of photos. The email started, “Hi, Everyone! Look at our two favorite Auditors! Aren’t they adorable?”

John banged his head back against the wall, and closed his eyes.


	17. Fever

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THank you, Lunamoth116 for beta ing!

John normally smelled of tea, wool, and - well, John. A manly smell. One that Sherlock hadn’t realized was so much his flatmate’s own until now. Earlier his hair had been dark and wet and smelt strongly of the industrial softsoap the man had used in the gym showers before they had been shown to new quarters. Now, after a long day filled by the delayed interviewing of the Medical Staff, Sherlock thought he was back almost to normal, the industrial scent fading. Not that the detective was standing about sniffing his friend. He was not above it. Sherlock had sniffed at corpses, after all. But it certainly would have embarrassed John.

Embarrassed him almost as much as the photographs circulating the facility. Everyone seemed to have a copy of at least one. John leant against Sherlock’s chest, his face young, relaxed with sleep. John’s head on Sherlock’s thigh, the detective’s arm curled protectively over his flatmate’s shoulder, the light of the movie shining on both their faces. Sherlock speaking over his shoulder to Dr. Morstan, his fingers running through John’s hair as the man slept. Or as embarrassing as the interesting notes that had been slipped into the doctor’s hand or pocket all day. The Initiative was a hotbed of sexual intrigue, which normally would have been dull. Sherlock had been finding John’s reactions amusing. Still, it had been a long day, and he was looking forward to dragging his flatmate for a walk around the grounds.

They had one final interview, Doctor John J. Watson. Jack had invited them to his quarters, providing a pitcher of good beer and moderately comfortable chairs, and the company of his wife as well. “You still enjoy this, Johnny-come-lately, because you weren’t here at the beginning.” Mary leaned forward to give Jack a pull on his ginger-and-silver mustache. “If you were stuck here for the entire time you wouldn’t find it too entertaining.”

Dr. Jack raised his own glass of water, offering, “It is my privilege to have been in the right time and the right place.”

John’s attention was refocused on the smiling man, aware of Sherlock’s intense gaze, measuring, at the American. “Sounds like a story. What happened?”

“Dr. Lazenby took ill.” Mary Morstan settled on the stool next to her husband. “A severe fever. It left him sorely debilitated, and he was in complete isolation until they airlifted him to a hospital in London.”

Dr. Jack rumbled, “Mary was part of the Initiative and recommended me. Next thing I know, I’m locked up here with the rest.”

Sherlock’s deep voice cut through the laughter. “Has anyone else come down with a similar fever?”

The paired heads of the married couple shook together in negative. Dr. Morstan laughed. “No! Quite a mystery, wouldn’t you say?”

Dr. Jack winked at John, who smiled noncommittally.

“I’m interested in the fever.” Sherlock continued his questioning. They had not asked anyone else about the attempts. “Who among you saw Dr. Lazenby? What exactly were his symptoms?”

Jack Watson tilted his head. “I would be very surprised to find that they were any different from whatever pathogen was set loose in your room, Mr. Holmes. After all, you seem to have set a cat among the pigeons simply by your presence here. Dr. Lazenby was not a nature lover. He had never been out of England, and it was unlikely that the fever was contracted naturally here.”

“Lazenby?” Dr. Morstan giggled. “He would never have left England. The good doctor complained that this installation was practically a foreign country. No, the doctor did not care for anyone...alien.”

John found himself watching Dr. Morstan. A beautiful woman. White hair, prematurely so, the doctor thought. Brown eyes, warm, naughty when her gaze caught his just now, the corners of her full lips turning up. The younger blond man didn’t think she was reading his mind, not as Sherlock did all too often. This was more of a sense of camaraderie, the two of them watching Sherlock and Jack dance with words.

Jack Watson. Major Jack Watson, as he now admitted, who was, of course, more and less than what he appeared. Mycroft had not warned them that the Americans had an agent here. With permission, of course, not that Sherlock cared. Sherlock did, however, have a bias against the CIA. John, who had cleaned Mrs. Hudson’s bleeding face and arm, was not any more fond. Breaking in on the Major’s pitch on international cooperation, John said, “We have a slight…history with the CIA.”

Giving him credit, Jack stopped dead and looked for more information.

“An American goon ‘roughed up’ our housekeeper.” Sherlock bit the words off.

 _Not our housekeeper_ begged to be released, but John kept his lips tightly sealed.

Mary - no, Dr. Morstan spoke gently. “Someone dear to you?” A statement or reminder to the Major, not actually a question.

Jack raised shaggy ginger-and-silver eyebrows that matched his mustache. “Did they survive?”

“Two did,” Sherlock said with satisfaction. “One with severe bodily trauma, broken ribs and a punctured lung.”

John added in that deceptively mild voice, “Fell out the window onto Mrs. Hudson’s bins.”

Sherlock waved a hand. “Seven or eight times.” His tone was vicious.

The elder doctor gave a sigh that ruffled his mustache. “Mr. Holmes, I am not surprised to hear that some men went…” A pause, then: “They were wrong.

Meanwhile, we are dealing with an incompetent who is very much not with the Agency. At some point, simply due to the law of averages, he or she will kill someone. We need to work together.”

“There is no known birth defect associated with this disease, but pregnant women and babies _in utero_ are delicate enough that we don’t want this to race through the population.” Dr. Morstan raised her eyebrow. “No-brainer.”

John felt the urge to give the woman a large buss on the mouth. “If our presence tipped whomever it is toward attempted murder by biological weapon, and I have no doubt that’s what our prankster was aiming for, then who knows what will set them off next time?”

Wary nods were exchanged. Dr. Morstan calmly began, “Culverton Smith. He has a great yellow face, coarse-grained and greasy, with heavy double-chin, and two sullen, menacing grey eyes. He used to glare at me from under those horribly tufted brows. His hair would have been sand-coloured, but not the nice kind like yours, John. More of a lessness instead. A high bald head.” She raised her hands over her own neat chignon. “He had a small velvet smoking-cap, of all things, on one side of all that pink curvedness. His skull was of enormous capacity, would have made an old style phrenologist weep with pleasure, and yet it always amazed me that the figure of the man was small and frail, twisted in the shoulders and back like one who suffered from rickets as a child.

”Culverton Smith - a hairy little man with a combover. Hair on the knuckles, a little too grotesque,” was the midwife’s not particularly unbiased description.

John blinked back a smile. “You got along splendidly, did you?”

Dr. Morstan gave a tiny, almost ladylike snort. “He had no use for any of us here. I’m not even sure why he was so set on this project. He didn’t speak to any of the doctors either. No intimates.”

“What was the sequence of events when Dr. Lazenby fell ill?” Sherlock was moving on.

“He fell ill in the middle of the night,” Dr. Morstan said thoughtfully, “and it was always thought that he had pressed the Quarantine button himself. He was somewhat of a hypochondriac, and had done that once before when he had a head cold.”

“How did the security respond?” Sherlock asked. “What did they find?”

“We don’t know.” It was short and Mary shrugged her shoulders.

Sherlock blinked. “Explain.”

“It was played down. Nobody in our area knows what happened because we were all in lockdown. Security won’t speak of it. Thomson might know, but we don’t.” Mary’s smile was not a happy one.

“Well,” Sherlock said softly, “why did you think that Dr. Lazenby was overreacting, Dr. Morstan?” Sherlock’s fingers were tented below his chin.

“Please, call me Mary.” She dimpled at the men. “I remember that the gossip was that Dr. Lazenby had been perfectly curmudgeonly at dinner the night before. If anything, the story was that he was less of a conspiracy nutcase at the meal. He ate instead of trying to convince the others of anything.”

“Mary -” John received a smile as reward “- was Dr. Lazenby friendly with anyone here?”

“Kept to himself, mostly,” Mary admitted.

Sherlock disappeared into his mind palace, and John was left to entertain the Watsons with the actual interview questions. Jack had a story to either illustrate or punctuate each question, and John found himself entertained instead. John watched the pair and their intimacy. It was not just the casual touching that caught his attention. Dr. Watson and his wife spoke in rhythm together; each seemed to know what the other would bring up next, or could remind the partner of shared experience. They had shared memories, friends in common. John tried to remember any relationship where he’d felt so comfortable with a woman he was dating. The answer was that John Hamish Watson had treated women well, had even been in the beginning stages of love, but never with what these two had.

Sherlock reached over John’s shoulder to tap the spacebar, shutting off the screensaver and bringing up John’s desktop and the form showing the questions. There was a snort when the deerstalker appeared. “I fail to see why you can’t find a better background picture for your desktop, John. Perhaps I should find one for you?” the baritone suggested.

“You’ll keep your paws off my laptop, Sherlock!” John’s indignation was old and familiar between the two of them.

“Hmmm,” Sherlock hummed, flicking a manicured finger at the time indicated on the screen.

John counted his blessings that he had not received a text message about it. “Thank you very much, Jack! Time for us to meet with Mr. Thomson.”

Jack stood and took both their hands, one after the other. “It was a pleasure to meet you both. Will we see you again? When you have a line on Culverton Smith or whoever tried to infect you?”

Sherlock’s smile was noncommittal. “We shall see.”

John received a hug from Mary, who spoke quietly: “If there is anything you need, please let me know.”

Nodding his farewell, the former Army doctor and his flatmate walked back to their quarters. Not quite a week, but enough to get the basics. John looked forward to their return to 221B. At least there no one had tried to kill them for at least six months.


	18. Blink and move on

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you very much, Lunamoth116 for retroactively beta-ing!

It was a cold day, dry, and growing darker, though not dusk quite yet. No clouds above in the pale blue sky. Sherlock had chevied John out of the building after their meeting with the Jack Watsons, pausing only to retrieve borrowed outdoor gear. Shivering, John looked out over the valley. The climb up the side of the outcropping had heated him, sweating as he climbed the rocky path, but standing here at the top the doctor felt wind blowing down the valley, and it chilled him. No reaction noticeable from his friend. He could never understand how his flatmate and partner - well, in discovering crime anyway - did not feel the cold. “Collar, John. Scarf,” Sherlock chided. “Of course I feel the cold.”

The standing collar of the black wool coat had been commented on before at Baskerville. John felt slight disorientation at the memory, though currently Sherlock was wearing a stridently-colored parka. Trauma is a cumulative thing. John thought that the Baskerville lab had touched him in a way that few other events had managed. Possibly because of his friend’s betrayal. It made the cold feel that much stronger.

A warm hand on his bicep. “Not Baskerville, John.” The voice was as warm, grounding the doctor.

John turned toward the already brightly-lit building down the valley from their perch on exposed rocks lining the ridge. Sherlock was tall in the shadow of the hillside, next to him, warm though, and John could feel his presence, aside from the concerned touch. It was comforting. “Isolated place.” Another obvious comment, and John grinned, unrepentantly, at his flatmate, expecting Sherlock to roll his eyes in obvious sarcasm. Sherlock was watching thoughtfully, quietly.

“Why exactly are we out here? I know you don’t do exercise for its own sake. For that matter -” John looked down to gleaming whiteness encasing Sherlock’s feet “- I never pictured you in trainers.”

“I have hiking boots. Trainers. Slippers that Mycroft gave me and I never wear.” Well, that part of the response was expected. “Really? Appropriate equipment for the task, Doctor Watson!

”As for our hike to this ridge? I thought you would prefer to escape from the confines of The Initiative. For a building so isolated, this week has been remarkably claustrophobic and filled with people.”

It elicited the giggle for which he had hoped. John was, after all, the social member of this partnership. “Sherlock, we live in London. We are surrounded by people every day, and you wouldn’t have it any other way.” Then, as an afterthought hit him: “How on earth did you survive at school? You must have had roommates.”

That sound was almost a growl: “Yes, well. Not for long.”

John looked up to find Sherlock staring at him, waiting for a response. “What?” the doctor tried for clarification. “You were not at school for long? Or you drove your dormmates away?”

Sherlock’s pale eyes did not waver, though the pupils were large in the darkness. “I did say that I was a difficult man to find a flatmate for. That has never changed.”

The good doctor had a think about that. “Have you never shared a room with your brother?”

“Are you insane?” Sherlock demanded. “Of course I never…wait. You shared with your sister, didn’t you?”

John’s nod was matter-of-fact. “Harriet, until the upper forms, had the upper bunk. Tent camping as a kid too. Then roommates at uni. Barracks in the army.

”I find,” he said as though making a discovery, “that I have shared with worse. You wash, yourself and your clothing, if not your dishes, and you don’t hang mended stockings on the shower rail. At least you haven’t yet. And I am never bored. Enraged. Astonished. Amazed. But never bored. I figure out long ago that I should count my blessings.”

It was Sherlock’s turn to blink. “I leave body parts in the fridge. Have you not told me this is unacceptable? As well as shooting the wall, and my experiments with mould cultures and blood? Those worse mates must have had a potent odor indeed!”

“I never said you were the perfect flatmate, Sherlock.” John grinned.

“No. No, you haven’t. And, you did take me back. After I died.” It was offered tentatively.

John’s face froze, just for a second. “I did, yes.” Then that smile, the one that was all given over to Sherlock; the grin that was in measure fond, thankful, and a joy in his company that only John Watson had ever shown him. “Yes. And don’t you bloody forget it! Otherwise you’d have ended up in a skip or with Mycroft!”

 _Or dead_. But neither of them said it. Possibly John had never realized it. Sherlock had. Smiling, he dropped his hand from its familiar placement on John’s arm. “We leave tomorrow morning. I think it is safe to say that this is the least monitored we will be until then. Have you scheduled for your return to interview the other sets of doctors?”

“Yes.” That nod was all business. “When you and Thomson were examining the video feeds. Will you be joining me?”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Dr. Watson. Your partner will be right at your side. And this will give me more opportunity to interact with the baby on a foetal level.” Those light-and-dark eyes gleamed in the dusk.

There was the fond look again. “You’ve made a decision on which one you want, then?”

Sherlock gave him a not-so-fond look. “Ridiculous. I won’t make that decision without you, John. I have narrowed the choices down, though. I thought it would be helpful. The eight from Harriet’s eggs, and two others. One from ‘the dark side’ as you keep calling them, and one from whatever you’ve decided to call the blondes. Perhaps we can discuss it on the ride back to Baker Street?” That sounded oddly hopeful.

“Of course. If we don’t get attacked in our sleep tonight,” John grumbled. “Sherlock, there is a potential murderer running about.”

“A clumsy and - Jack is right - stupid potential murderer. Who is wary, after the quick response and quiet failure of his or her attempt. Thomson will keep a closer eye on us tonight, and we were the target. Once we leave, the mole will relax. And we will be able to collate the data and determine who is more likely. It must be someone who was here now, and when Dr. Lazenby was taken ill. That should cut down on the prospects enormously!” A mystery, a tiny one, but something to encourage further interaction and keep the boredom at bay! Sherlock felt that things were looking very good indeed. At least this would keep him occupied while being “sociable” as John would require tonight at dinner.

John smiled, and followed his friend down the hillside back to the huge brick monstrosity waiting at the bottom. Tomorrow they would discuss the reality of The Baby. It had been obscured by this visit, by the recent events. Well, hidden from him, but obviously Sherlock had his eyes on the prize regardless of petty inconveniences like attempted murder. Good to know!

…

Sherlock’s question came as John was seated and the door closed, his belt not even clicked in. The tall, lean detective drove the hired car with flair. John had learned at Baskerville that Sherlock had a current hack license, renewed when the tall, thin man had risen from the dead, and the doctor was content to let his flatmate take on the chore of driving. “Male or female?” The tone was brisk.

John didn’t return the question. Sherlock would give his opinion, no doubt of it. “Male would be easier, wouldn’t it?”

“How so?” Sherlock was asking him, John knew, to be his conductor of light.

“Well,” John returned, “we’re both male. We have an idea what the child will be dealing with growing up. Neither of us are female, and might be blindsided by some of the aspects of raising a little girl. Explaining sexuality to a female would be vastly different from a male. And social expectations.”

Sherlock’s attention was on the statement, rather than the road, but his hands moved the wheel with precision. “You are a doctor. We are both aware of biological processes, if not the social norms.”

“Not the same as growing up with them,” John pointed out.

“I’d be willing to say that you and I had different experiences growing up, both being male,” Sherlock responded.

John quirked his grin. “Different maybe, but similar enough. And there is also the bit about parents being more protective of daughters than sons.”

“Less chance of unwanted pregnancy,” Sherlock listed. “Less chance of rape. Women are targeted more for physical crime. Choosing a son does not preclude that, however.”

John nodded, wincing at the thought of rape as a factor. “I understand that a father-daughter bond can be strong. Harry wasn’t all that close to my dad, though.”

“You were close to your father,” Sherlock asked, “and your mother as well?”

“Yes.” John still missed them. His answer to that was short.

“Looking at you and your sibling, I would gather that you were the easier child to raise. Mycroft and I were close to Mummy. Different type of closeness than your family, I would think.” Sherlock held his emotions so close to his vest. His loss was not evident in his voice or face, but John thought he could see a slight tensing on the hands moving the steering wheel.

Cocking his head, he asked for more information. “Your family are less physically affectionate?”

A nod from the genius he lived with. “John, imagine a family where each member can infer from the slightest bit of body language, scent, or phrasing. Knowledge that would be even more evident with access to touch, to the feel of a pulse, to a hint of reaction.”

“Oh.” Again, a short response. What was there to say?

“We were hugged as infants, and a short while as children. Attendants gave us more touching than Mycroft and I were comfortable with, really. To be held by Mummy was a joy. To receive the caress of our father’s hand on our heads was a treasure. But while they were consistent, they were not constant.” It was a matter-of-fact explanation. “Nor were they physically affectionate with each other in public. This was appropriate for the time and circumstances.”

John gave silent thanks for the pats and hugs and loving that were second nature to his parents. Harriet was not one for that sort of thing after she’d gone off to the upper forms. Too grown up for it, she’d said. John had never felt too old for showing his parents that he’d loved them. Experiences in relationships had varied. John Watson was well aware that he was a physically affectionate man, and that not all in this world felt comfortable with frequent touch. He was thoughtful as the miles passed. “We’ll have to find a happy medium. Shall we?”

“What are the advantages to having a girl?” was Sherlock’s reply.

“We can dress her up. She could bond with Harriet and Mrs. Hudson, possibly with Molly. It would expand your experience.” John tried to think of other positive aspects to raising a girl. “And there’s always the thought of ‘Daddy’s Little Girl’.”

Sherlock snorted. “I believe that Mrs. Hudson can bond quite nicely with a little boy as well. Neither you nor I would feel that a small child, boy or girl, learning to bake at Mrs. Hudson’s knee, would be anything to be ashamed of.”

“So have we made a decision?” John turned to look at Sherlock.

“There are four boys among the ten prospects. Three of them are from Harriet’s eggs,” Sherlock proffered.

John cocked his head. “The woman you liked. The brunette who reminded you of your mother. What is she carrying?”

“Well spotted, John!” His flatmate gave a sideways smile. “But sadly, she is carrying a girl. Emotional response to the surrogate is not a valid selection point for the child she bears.”

“That means three from Harriet, and one from one of the blonde surrogates. Is there anything about that last one that makes a strong claim on our choice?” John found himself enormously pleased at Sherlock’s comment.

“None of which I am aware. So that leaves three to decide between. The files are under your seat, John. Read them out loud, and we’ll determine which would suit?” It sounded normal and sane when that rich baritone presented the idea.

A discussion ensued on the three possibilities. After chewing over all aspects, John suddenly said, “Sherlock, you don’t like for people to touch you because it floods you with information?”

“One way of putting it.” That pale face smiled; the deep voice sounded amused at John’s careful tone. “What are your questions, John?”

A huff of a laugh. “Where to start?” At his flatmate’s dark cocked eyebrow, John asked, “The dentist?”

Surprised, the brunette gave his own small snort. “Really, John? The dentist?”

“How do you and Mycroft manage with that? You won’t see a doctor regularly, but you and your brother are fanatical about your teeth. You’re precise about your appearance. How do you stand a hygienist and a dentist in your mouth every six months? For that matter, what about your tailor? Your barber?”

A heavy, put-upon sigh, eyes on the traffic around the car. Sherlock scowled. “Stylist. All of those services are provided by men and women accustomed to the Holmes foibles. I have known them and utilized their services for many years.”

“You mean they know how far they can go with you?” Watson thought that was accurate enough, but asked for clarification. "Is this why Mycroft texts during a root canal? He is so very familiar with the endodontist? Or is it that he can’t relax in someone’s hands?”

The scowl relaxed. “Exactly so.”

John was being careful again. “I had thought your aversion to the A&E and doctors was from your experience in rehab.” It was open, if Sherlock chose to comment further.

There was only the sound of the engine, a train in the distance, and of cars passing for some time. When it broke the silence, Sherlock’s voice was calm. “In part. It is both, actually. And experience with psychological testing when I was a child. Definitely a matter of control.”

“Your parents had you evaluated when you were small?” John added this into the equation that was his brilliant flatmate.

“The school requested it. Mycroft as well.” Was this an admission? Then: “I’m not crazy. My mother had me tested.”

If John had been drinking, he would have choked or done a spit-take. As it was, there was a momentary blankness while his mind filled in the reference. “You’re quoting _The Big Bang Theory_? You don’t watch comedies, Sherlock; how do you know that quote? Do you even know who Sheldon Cooper is?”

“It was on a shirt,” his flatmate deadpanned. That cracked into a smile at John’s expression. “Oh, for heaven’s sake, John. I spent time in America while I was dead. It was impossible to escape from Sheldon Cooper. At one point a flunky of Jim’s compared the two of us.”

John raised his own blond eyebrows. “I am shocked. Completely shocked at the cultural reference!”

There was a physical atmosphere of good will, as the partners grinned out of the windscreen. John might have missed the next comment if he hadn’t been paying attention to the man beside him.

“I don’t really need the A&E or other doctors. I have a doctor. And I consult with him almost daily.”

Quiet descended, until: “Does it bother you when I touch you, Sherlock?” John was just now realizing how often they did touch.

At that the consulting detective smiled, relaxed and, so far as John could read, said sincerely, “My dear Dr. Watson, your touch is welcome, and not a nuisance. For all that you are extremely open, you do always surprise me.”

John felt his own body relax at the affection radiating from his friend. “You constantly read me. Almost always accurately!” he responded.

“Almost.” That was laughter. “But not always.”

John’s memory supplied him with Sherlock deducing his alcoholic brother, and moved swiftly through any number of situations where they had touched, been tied up together, checked each other over for wounds, been hidden in tight spaces, through Sherlock dragging off the parka and semtex vest from his body at the pool, and ending with John’s testing for a pulse after the suicide. The square, capable fingers twitched.

“Saint Bart’s?” Sherlock’s deep voice broke right into his thoughts.

“Yeah.” John swallowed to grasp for control. “An example of my inability to read you.”

Sherlock shook his head, dark curls bouncing. “You read me all too well. You knew something was not right. I will never stop saying I am sorry for what I did. I thought you would be with Mrs. Hudson by that time.”

“Yeah, well. Neither of us was at our best that day.” His friend took a deep breath and forced himself to relax.

“What about ‘Basil’?” The deep voice was light and teasing, striving to break the darkness of the mood. "As a name for the child. Basil John Holmes?

“Basil?” John smiled, strained. “Are there Basils in your family?”

“Jeremy or Brett, William or Gillette?” came next.

“Boring.” John thought he had done a fairly accurate imitation.

Sherlock gave him a side glance. “Well, we can’t have boring. Some version of John, then?”

“Sherlock,” John groaned, “John is so common as to be ridiculous!”

“Yes,” his flatmate said, hands steady on the wheel. “But I have never found John to be boring.”

John Watson took a deep breath and turned to partially face Sherlock, difficult to do with the seatbelt. “So you say Now.” It was with the laughter returned.

The dark-haired head nodded. “Sherlock Holmes, Jr.?”

“Well, now you’re being absurd!”

“What are your suggestions then? Something Afghani?” Sherlock was still smiling, having thrown down the gauntlet, and knowing that John would pepper him with bizarre and interesting names for the remainder of the trip. In this, he read his friend completely accurately.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> William Gillette was the first actor to perform to acclaim in an authorized version of Sherlock Holmes on the stage. He was from Connecticutt, and you can visit his home.
> 
> http://www.imdb.com/name/nm0319069/?ref_=fn_al_nm_1


	19. The Naming of Children

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There is power in names...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, Lunamoth116 for beta-ing!

“The Naming of Cats is a difficult matter,  
It isn't just one of your holiday games;”  
T.S. Eliot

The discussion of names continued over tea and takeaway. Mrs. Hudson had been in the flat during their absence, as was apparent from the lack of dust in the few cleared spaces. She hadn’t taken the skull, so she wasn’t angry with Sherlock. Brave though the woman was, she had not touched the refrigerator, which was filled with decaying takeaway, a white sludge-filled milk carton, and no sign of body parts since Sherlock had frozen everything prior to leaving for the Initiative. John would have to take care of cleaning out the rotting food tomorrow.

Their beds had been made with fresh sheets, and the bedrooms smelled dust-free. John, checking both rooms, felt odd about how clean and neat Sherlock kept his own room. Of course, John’s was spartan; he just tended not to collect clutter. Sherlock was correct. The doctor stored everything in the bottom of his wardrobe.

Clutter felt right in the sitting room, which was where they were currently located. “Alright, no more Afghani suggestions from me, nor Russian from you. What about French names?” John asked. He was enjoying _his chair_. The Flat. Being Home.

“Jean?” Sherlock asked. “Although, I believe that a French name will not go over well in the British school system, even now.”

“Jean?” John parsed it, his accent horrendous. He spoke authoritatively, “We will not have two Johns in the flat. Nor two Sherlocks. So, no Sherlock Holmes, Jr.”

Sherlock made a face, dark waves of hair framing the pallor as he examined his pad Thai. “They would likely call him Gene anyway,” the taller man complained.

“Afton? Aloysius? Alford?” Those got his flatmate’s attention and John threw in, “Kynaston? Stepney?”

“Where are you getting those names, John?” Sherlock asked, distracted.

“Old English naming website. I looked up ‘Sherlock’.” John grinned. “It’s Old English. Couldn’t find ‘Mycroft’, though it’s easy enough to figure what it meant. Some form of farm reference.”

Sherlock replied absently, “Mycroft and I have Lord Sheridan as an ancestor, and my mother thought to name me ‘Sherrinford’.”

John asked cautiously, “How do you feel about that one? We could shorten it to ‘Ford’? Not Sherry. Too much potential for misunderstanding.”

His flatmate looked up. “What? No. Sherrinford is very nearly as bad as Sherlock. For a boy, anyway. It might do for a girl.”

“It means ‘fair-haired’,” John put in. “Sherlock does, that is. In case you deleted it.”

That striking face looked amused. “No, John, I did not delete the meaning of my own name. And as you can see, my hair is not particularly ‘fair’.”

John snorted. “Every woman we meet looks at that hair. Second only to -” the shorter man gestured “- those cheekbones. You cannot say that your hair is unattractive. Or not ‘fair’ as the name suggests.”

Sherlock’s pale eyes focused on his flatmate’s hands, then shifted to his friend’s face. “Really?” His long fingered hands flickered on either side of his face, not touching the dark locks.

“Sally Donovan would kill for hair like yours,” John said wryly, “and I can’t tell you how many women I’d be able to pull with hair like that.”

Sherlock could feel a sourness radiating from his face, unsure himself whether it was from the mention of Sergeant Donovan or the thought of John being “on the pull”. Sherlock had been quite happy at John’s professional detachment while at the Initiative. Now they were home, and although John had brought no one home since Sherlock’s return, that might change. However it looked, the expression made John chuckle. Sherlock relaxed into a fond smile watching that familiar laugh. All those long months without his doctor, and he had missed that giggle every day. “Did you wish to name the boy after your father?”

The chuckle became a bark of laughter, harsh and negative. “Not very much. James John Watson. Jim for short, or Jimmy. No child of mine will ever be named Jim. Moriarty’s ruined the name for me. Thank you though, for the thought.”

Well, that was a bit not good. “What do you think of Siger?” The question left that cupids-bow of a mouth without preparation.

John cocked his head, interested, and willing to leave his momentary bad mood behind. “Any particular reason? Wasn’t Sigerson a name you used when you were taking Moriarty’s network apart?”

“Good, John! Yes. And if Moriarty had been alive I would not have survived that shocking display of sentiment. I am sure that Mycroft was completely unhappy about my using the name,” Sherlock smirked.

John worked his way through the logic. “Siger was your father’s name? I like it.”

“You don’t think it would be odd?” That pale gaze was examining the blue eyes before him as he asked.

“How is that stranger than Sherlock? Or Mycroft? It’s distinctive, not odd. I should know what it’s like to share a name with practically everyone. Siger is good.” John nodded at his friend.

A nod of the dark head in return as Sherlock took in a mouthful of noodles. Then, mouth stuffed, he commented, “Siger Hamish Holmes does not sound bad. I think that should be the boy’s name.”

When John looked up and over from his own plate, Sherlock was studiously looking down, head bowed over the mixture on his plate.

“Sherlock.” John sounded so pleased.

Looking up through his long dark lashes, his flatmate did not need deduction to read the happiness spread across that honest face.

Not so difficult, really, this naming of children. Though what would they use for the second?


	20. A Visit with Harry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John tries to explain the situation to Harry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, Lunamoth116 for beta-ing!

“Harry!” John smiled, and moved forward to hug his sister. He was wearing the blue jumper she’d given him last Christmas - bought, not knit. She was dressed professionally, looked extremely chic next to his comfortable self, and her colours went well with her complexion and dyed hair. John was used to that perfection in comparison to his own ordinariness. Some things never changed, and certainly he had that same - was issue the correct word? - with Sherlock now? Harry’s hair showed brighter blonde than John’s; she’d been to the salon recently to have the color redone. It was normally brown, but she preferred the flamboyance of gold. Shoulder-length when loose, her hair was pulled back into a discreet bun, and she leaned that shining head against his sand-colored one, returning the embrace.

“John!” She pulled back just enough to look her brother in the eye, teasing, “Face to face? Twice in as many months?”

John’s smile was careful. Not exactly forced. He knew Harry had taken that in. Her smile did not waver, but then over the years of drinking Harry had become very good at putting on other faces. She was good at reading the people around her, something that the con man nature of alcoholism brought out, but not so wondrous in comparison with Sherlock’s amazing talent. John’s sister gave him a slug on the arm, asking, “So? What’s up?”

Sitting in the booth, his khakis sticking slightly to the scarlet vinyl, John took a mouthful of coffee, swallowing the milky bitterness before beginning. “Harry, I wanted to clarify what’s going on.”

It sounded odd. Over-elaborate. John had worked on what he would say. His preoccupation had driven him to ask advice of his flatmate. Nobody in their right mind went to Sherlock bloody Holmes for relationship advice. Particularly not when you knew about his interactions with his own sibling. “Why bother?” had been the disinterested response. Why indeed?

“Harry -“ 

In the pause his sister raised an immaculate eyebrow. “John?” she responded.

“I think you misunderstood something when we talked before. Sherlock and I? We’re not together.”

Laughter at that statement. John had missed the unrestrained giggle from when they were children. “John, you’re living with the man. You’re practically married. You certainly sound like an old married.”

John looked around the coffee shop. “Harry, do you see that table of men near the door?” At her nod he went on, “Which one of them would you want to have sex with?”

To her credit she did actually examine the two blonds and three brunettes. “I know what you’re saying, John. Very trite, the question. And yeah, none of them. The waitress is hot, though!”

“The waitress,” John pointed out, “looks like her twin brother, who is one of the men at the table.” John had been to this coffee shop with Sherlock. It wasn’t that John was unobservant; it was that Sherlock was just always more so. Well, that wasn’t true, was it? John could see it when Sherlock told him.

“Huh.” Harry’s eyes went back and forth. “Still…” she started and trailed off.

John drank, and then told her, “I think the waitress is hot, too. Don’t feel attracted to any of the men.”

“Not even the tall, skinny brunette?” smirked Harry. “He’s got a pretty mouth.” 

“Not in the least. And it’s never the individual bits, it’s the whole package for me. For what it’s worth - still not gay, Harry. Though it would be fine if I was. Were. Was.”

“Yeah, I know,” Harry mimicked her brother. “It’s all fine.” She took her own mouthful of coffee. “He never corrects when people think you’re a couple, John.” Harriet’s comment, as well as her look, was pointed.

“That -” John held on grimly to the point, continuing “- is because…” Because what? John could no longer say that people were objects to Sherlock. Not real or important. Moriarty had proved that wrong when he’d burned the heart out of Sherlock Holmes. Or tried to.

Harriet gave him another pointed look. “If he were female, you can’t tell me you wouldn’t have tapped that. Try to picture him as a woman.”

John began to laugh. “Oh, Harry! Not the point at all!” On his cell were a number of pictures of Sherlock in female persona. He had photographs of as many of Sherlock’s disguises as he could manage. John still got distracted thinking about his friend’s years tracking down Moriarty’s network. Taking pictures of Sherlock being someone else was less a compulsion than a safety measure. And Sherlock dressed as a woman wasn’t exactly drag so far as John could tell. Disguise, Sherlock had told him, meant that you invested part of yourself into the creation. Or had that been Irene Adler?

“Well, then? What is the point?” An amused Harry raised a sculpted eyebrow as she asked.

How hard would this be? “You remember when you were in uni? When you sold some of your eggs to that medical group, right before the big national discussion on the ethics of it all?”

Harry’s eyes shifted. “I remember. I checked into that again when Clara and I were married. We thought about _in vitro_. Thought about Clara carrying a baby. Those eggs would have been better than using one now. Less damage from the alcohol. Never could have afforded it. And Clara wanted one of mine.”

“You remember Moriarty, yeah?”

A cocked head of shining golden hair as she repeated the words so many others had. “Richard Brook?”

“No!” John was firm. “James Moriarty. He owned the Masterson Corporation. They had a number of biomedical companies. International Health was one of theirs.”

Harry sat straight up. She was, after all, not stupid. “I know that name. So? Whatever you and Sherlock are involved in just got personal? Is that it?

“Yeah.” John tried an innocent look that failed utterly. “You could say that.”

“So. Sherlock’s mortal enemy, according to you the one who made him jump off a roof, got hold of my eggs? Not really anything I can do about it, Johnny. They paid me. I signed away my rights.”

“Yeah -” slow and drawn out “- just as Sherlock did when he donated sperm to the same company.”

Smug, John thought. Yes, he was feeling smug at Harriet’s reaction. Harry gagged. Audibly and visibly. The doctor was wondering if he would tell Sherlock about it, or if the genius would be able to infer from John’s behavior when he returned to the flat.

“John!” Harry’s voice had risen as she sputtered, “What the hell?”

“Sherlock and I are adopting a baby created from one of the eggs you sold in uni and Sherlock’s sperm. I told you Moriarty was a nutter.”

“Adopting? You and the man you insist you’re not in a relationship with,” Harry all but shrieked, “are having my baby?”

Well, this could have gone better, John decided. Harry’s face had gone an odd shade of red that clashed with the bright gold of her hair. She had stopped speaking, and was swallowing huge gulps of her still-hot coffee. It was alarming. “Are you alright?” John asked more to fill up space than because he thought she was capable of a stroke at this point in the news.

Harry took several deep breaths, head now leaned into her hands. “John.” Her voice came off muffled. “You’re finally giving Mum and Dad a grandchild, but not the way they were worried about.”

“Worried about?” John gaped. He had thought, over the years, that he had been at least somewhat discreet. Dad had only spoken to him that once, back just before university. John had minded him. Done his best to avoid leaving a trail of bastards in his wake.

“That you’d knock up one of your girls -” Harry was laughing “- and now the baby will be mine, really.”

“Mine, Harry. The baby will be my son.” John probably meant to sound as implacable as he did. There would be no mistake. The child was not Harry’s; it would be John’s.

…

Crime scene photographs tiled the floor to the sitting room. A long, thin, curled-up lump was burrowed under a cover on the sofa. Odd position for the Mind Palace, John thought. So his flatmate must have fallen asleep. That meant the cold case had been resolved. Hopscotching his way over the evidence to the kitchen doorway, John clicked on the kettle and started tea. Hot tea on top of the coffee. No sleep for John any time soon, possibly not at all tonight. Leaning against the sink, holding his RAMC mug complete with tea bag, John mentally listed what would need to be done in the kitchen to make it habitable.

Water boiling, the doctor prepared two cups of tea, one sweet, one light, and turned to carry them to the sitting room, almost bumping into his flatmate wrapped in the plaid blanket and standing in the kitchen doorway. Clumsily turning Sherlock’s mug to offer it, he asked, “How long did it take you?”

“Thirteen minutes.” Sherlock reached for the tea. “Dull.” Then, his flatmate smirked, asking, “And what was Harry’s response? You told her, and she…”

A small smile on the doctor’s lips. John was attempting to contain his reaction. “You can’t infer it?”

Sherlock stared at his flatmate and ruminated. “She did not accept it with grace. But that I could have assumed from previous interactions. No marks of violence, but that was to be expected. She did hit you on the shoulder. You’re slightly stiff in handing me the mug of tea. But that was what Harry considers a friendly love tap. She does that each time she sees you. You’re finding her reaction humourous, therefore it was not something as extreme as a dead faint. You were at a coffee shop. She threw up?”

John smiled, a large one now. “It never ceases to amaze me. Gagged. Quite splendidly. Also, tried to pick up the waitress.”

Sherlock made a face. “Well, you do have similar taste in women,” was the snark in return.

“Yah.” John’s grin was fond. “As was commented on by Harry.”

“I am amazed -” Sherlock turned and headed back to the sitting room, still speaking “- that she said that. It was more likely that she’d think your tastes were tall and dark.”

John’s sigh was inaudible as he began to clean the kitchen.


	21. Mrs. Hudson

John bumped into Mrs. Hudson on his way up to the flat. He'd exchanged a greeting, but he stopped partway up the stairs and called back to her, “Mrs. Hudson?”

“Yes, John?” The small, older woman was standing at the open doorway to 221A flipping through a stack of mail.

“Has Sherlock spoken to you recently? About our plans?” John could not remember speaking to her about it himself, and it was quite possible they’d completely left her out. Lestrade knew somewhat - or at least what Sherlock wanted him to know - but not Mrs. Hudson, which was disconcerting. Certainly she was vitally involved.

A smile as she turned her attention from the paper in her hands, bright and sweet. “About what, dear?”

“Sherlock -” now was not the time to be a coward, but how much simpler it would be to just leave it at the man they both cared about instead of buying into this publicly “- and I. We are looking into adopting a baby.”

“Oh!” Mrs. Hudson’s face brightened. “Is it official then? Will we make the upstairs bedroom into a nursery?”

“No, no! The baby would sleep in Sherlock’s room in a cot. No! We’re not together. I’m still not gay, and I have no idea what Sherlock is.” That last was muttered. “But there is a baby, or will be. One related to us both, actually. And Sherlock and I have discussed adopting him, providing a home here -” John kept his voice from quavering, and was proud of it “- with us.”

Mrs. Hudson’s face took on a concerned look, as she asked, “With toes in the fridge? And Sherlock’s experiments all round the flat? John, your kitchen is such a mess. Your oven…Sherlock promised to get that fixed.”

John, still standing on the steps, grabbed for the comfort of logistics as he held onto the banister. “We had hoped to let 221C from you. For Sherlock’s business. As an office. The toes would go in there. Er, in the fridge there. Yes, we’d fix the oven. Get it fixed.”

“A baby, John. That’s a large responsibility. I can’t help you out much with that. I’ve got my hip.” The tone was still thoughtful.

John found himself smiling. “Yes, Mrs. Hudson. Sherlock has planned for all of that. He doesn’t expect me to be a stay-at-home, and he told me specifically, ‘Mrs. Hudson will not be childcare. She has her hip.’”

That roused her fighting spirit. “Sherlock and his plans! I’m sure, dear, that I can be called on to help somewhat. Though I am only your landlady.”

“We would love that, Mrs. Hudson. And you know you’re not Only Anything, right?” John smiled at the measure of pleasure blooming on the older woman’s face. “Not to me, and certainly not to Sherlock. He said that you could certainly bond with a little boy, and that you might be willing to teach him how to bake. So I expect he’s thinking about fixing the oven as well.”

“I wonder. Could he do something about that mould? In C? And I suppose all of those mould experiments in your flat…Sherlock, not the baby,” Mrs. Hudson twittered.

John grinned. “I’ll have to be careful about asking. Who knows but that the experiment might be worse than the problem!”

Mrs. Hudson leaned down stiffly to pick up some envelopes she’d let fall. “Get on upstairs with you. We’ll discuss the other flat when we can tie Sherlock down to it.”

…

John waited to bring it up until Sherlock was on the edge of being bored. A blank look now. “Mrs. Hudson would like assistance in killing the mould in 221C? We should take a look at that immediately. Mrs. Hudson?” The baritone shout echoed as Sherlock bolted out of the flat and downstairs. John watched his friend go, finished the tea, then started picking up the folders lying around the flat.

How much to tell Mrs. Hudson? John was certain that leaving it to Sherlock, she’d know nothing about it, being expected to pick it up by seeing and observing. Though he had made a comment at some point about Mrs. Hudson decorating. He took a look round the flat, trying to imagine baby toys and all the impedimenta that a baby brings. John had a keen imagination, but had difficulty with this.

The laptop, John’s laptop, was open. Running a finger across the pad the blond-haired doctor found window after window of local school sites. Sherlock was looking into wide-ranging consequences. John took time to look a bit at each one before closing it out. A new bookmark folder on the bar at the top was labeled Guilty Pleasures. Sitting at the desk, he took the time to go through what appeared to be site after site of scientific toys, a doctor kit, mathematical constructs, educational manipulatives.

Well, this was better than a list of poisons, John supposed. Closing it all out, he took a walk down to 221C where Sherlock was on his hands and knees examining a patch of black revealed when he had ripped wainscoting away from the wall. “Yes, Mrs. Hudson, I will happily take care of removing this. It will give me some experience with materials that could conceivably be used in poisoning.”

“Has Sherlock told you our plans for the flat, Mrs. Hudson?” John knew Mrs. Hudson’s first name, but would no more use it than he would set fire to the house.

“No, though he has great plans for the mould.” That worn face was smiling fondly down at the curly-haired, dark head as it lay flat looking under a patch of carpeting.

“Perhaps,” John said thoughtfully, “we might have the carpet replaced by tiling? Something that would hold up to acid spills?”

“Excellent idea, John.” Sherlock’s reply was excited, there was no doubt. Good. Bored no more, then. “The mould must go before we can put anyone in the bedroom. Mycroft may be insufferable, but his criteria for habitation is inarguable.”

“In the bedroom? Sherlock, I thought you were to use this as an office?” Mrs. Hudson was trying to puzzle her way through.

The consulting detective bounded to his feet. John was not certain how he’d managed that from a prone position. “This area will be the office!” Sherlock dashed into the kitchen. “This the lab!” From there they hastened into the bedroom. “And this will be where the childcare person sleeps!”

“You will be hiring a girl to take care of the baby?” This was said slowly.

Sherlock was still moving about the flat like a madman. “John and I will be primary caregivers. The childcare will be for moments when we will be investigating, Mrs. Hudson! A woman. A man. Someone with credentials to care for young Siger when John and I are chasing after malefactors!” Sherlock bounced to a stop in front of the slight woman. Grasping her shoulders, he said, “Mrs. Hudson, would you help us to determine who would be the right person to take care of Siger Hamish Holmes?”

Mrs. Hudson was looking up at the joyful face above her. “Siger? For your father, Sherlock? How nice. And Hamish for John?”

“Yes, yes, we’ve worked all that out, as well as a selection of male and female names for the next one if this works out.” His gaze had narrowed. “Whomever we choose must be flexible enough to work night or day, be agreeable to you, and will not be insufferably dull.” The elegant hands dropped away, and the tall, thin man had raced into the kitchen, banging through cupboards and into the refrigerator. 

Martha Louise Sissons Hudson turned to smile at Dr. John Watson. “He’s like a little boy, isn’t he? Having his own son will do him a world of good.”

“Mrs. Hudson, it will be an education for both of us.” John gave her a cheeky look, adding, “And imagine Mycroft and a baby as well. He’ll be most likely to give the child a brolly and waistcoat.”

Mrs. Hudson shot him a shrewd look. “There is a great deal more to Mycroft Holmes than his brother would like to admit. Don’t let Sherlock blind you to the help that his brother can be for you both.”

John was startled. “I promise that I won’t, Mrs. Hudson.”

“Good, dear.” He received a kiss on the cheek. “Now, what kind of paint would you like to see on these walls? I am thinking paint rather than expensive wallpapering. Sherlock is not to use them for target practice either.”

“No.” John’s reply was conspiratorial. “You and I should think about furniture as well. Sherlock’s taste runs a little more expensive that we can manage at the moment.”

“Oh, he has favours that he will call in, dear. If not, we can find something sturdy to manage with at first.” Mrs. Hudson took John by the arm and pulled him into the bedroom to discuss basic needs for an _au pair_ , as they could hear Sherlock happily banging about in the bath.

Later, as John slid a bit of fry up onto Sherlock’s plate, he said, “Mrs. Hudson really does think the world of you.”

A dark, elegant eyebrow gave him all the reply that massive intellect deemed necessary. John plowed on, “She loves you dearly, Sherlock. You do inspire either devotion or despite, don’t you?”

Sherlock Holmes slowly turned to look blandly at his friend’s face as the man took his seat and started eating. “Does this wash of sentiment have a point, Dr. Watson?”

The aforementioned Dr. Watson pointed a sausage-clad fork at his flatmate, as he pointed out, “You care for her a great deal. You’re incredibly rude to her, but you dumped a man out the second story window onto her bins for touching her. You threw him out of the window multiple times. You pitched yourself off a roof for her.”

“Well -” the words were a drawl, though the angular face staring back at him was new-paper blank “- for you as well. And Lestrade.”

“You are so very much not a sociopath, high-functioning or otherwise, Sherlock. Who made that diagnosis?” John had wondered this for years. “Wait? Did you diagnose yourself? Did you pick out a syndrome that would suit The Work and set yourself to become it?” An incredible grin spread across the man’s honest face and he ran fingers through sand-coloured hair. “You did. You chose to leave emotions and ‘sentiment’ behind, didn’t you?”

The blank became a stone wall. John’s eyes lit up. “It didn’t work, did it, Sherlock? In any case, your rudeness is what makes Donovan and Anderson think you’re a psychopath, and they have no clue that it’s just you working the closest way to the truth. To the facts? It has nothing to do with emotions at all; it has to do with finding the answer to the puzzle. Donovan and Anderson, by the way, don’t really understand the definition of psychopath, much less sociopath. Too much crap telly on their parts.”

“I don’t care what Donovan and Anderson think, John,” that deep voice reminded him.

“If you didn’t care -” John took another bite before going on “- then you wouldn’t have pricked their vanity. You never start it, at least you haven’t when I’ve been with you. I’m rather more inclined to think of Angelo and Wiggins and your homeless network. About Molly, and Lestrade, and Mrs. Hudson. They weigh rather heavily on the balance, don’t they?”

Sherlock found himself taking a forkful of food and placing it in his mouth. Chewing, he thought about it - or was he using this as an excuse not to speak? He ate more, still thinking, slow grinding thought rather than quick and jumping from connection to connection. It was quiet in the kitchen until John leaned back in his chair before an empty plate, cup of tea in his hand, and said, “What do you observe about Mrs. Hudson?”

Sherlock looked up, realizing that his plate was empty. “Mrs. Martha Hudson, widow. Too good for her boyfriend from downstairs in Speedy’s. Glad that’s broken up. Lonely, having been brought up to believe that a woman needs a man to complete her. Friendships like Mrs. Turner are not enough, socially.

”Small, almost birdlike, she is tougher than she looks. Quicker than most people think her, in spite of her tendency to chatter. That was a good call she made when the CIA came visiting. Not many would think to hide the phone. An older woman, the agent likely thought twice about searching her physically, didn’t think she’d put it down her blouse. She knew exactly where to look for it as well, my second-best dressing gown.

”She held up to abuse from her husband as well. Discovered the murders and brought me in on them. Didn’t falter throughout the trial. She deserves more out of life.” Sherlock stopped, his face surprised at that last.

“Hmmm,” John hummed. “Yes, I agree.”


	22. Titles

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, beta, Lunamoth116!
> 
> Also... 
> 
>  " _Omelette du fromage_ "  
>  

Sherlock had begun to spin his memory games in the Mind Palace with regard to the baby. The nursery was linked to John’s room. Mycroft, interferingly helpful as ever, had provided - through Anthea - a checklist for John regarding the legal elements of adoption. Preparations proceeded apace, and John had started to count the days down on a calendar on the kitchen wall, crossing each square with a strong black hand in marker.

John was - of course - also working his way solidly through the list, being careful and complete. This was useful, again of course, but it was also not likely to keep Sherlock’s attention. And it must be boring, even for John. Next phase of discussion, what was it to be? Something important. They’d already discussed discipline, hygiene, education, language, and household rules.

John had agreed that Sherlock should speak to the child in other languages as much as possible. John knew a bit of pidgin Pashto, and slightly more Dari. Some of each of his languages, he admitted, was fairly rude. Most of his words, though, were medical or pleasantries. Sherlock had quickly discovered John’s furtive attempt to learn French, though he had not confronted his flatmate about it. It was a Secret. John should know that it was fruitless to think it would be kept one. Language files on an iPod kept exclusively upstairs, packaging buried under the trash, and the quiet murmur in John’s room at night before bed as he practiced pronunciation. John had started watching films in French on the internet. Sherlock had watched several with him, adventures mostly. _La cité des enfants perdus_ and _Delicatessen_. John had apparently slept through the parts of Dominique Pinon and Ron Perlman in _Alien: Resurrection_ , but Sherlock commented on them at length. John hadn’t known whether to be pleased at the interest, or concerned.

When John fell asleep during crap telly Sherlock would speak softly in his ear, generally classics of French forensics. At times poetry, for Sherlock had not deleted the things his mother had read. Sometimes songs, though Sherlock did not sing when John was awake. But at night, when there was the opportunity. Not loudly enough to wake his flatmate, but surely enough to direct the subconscious to the complexities of the French language. Sherlock knew that it was not possible to brainwash someone with this technique, no matter what John’s favorite science fiction movies said. John at times left the headphones playing French dialogue as he slept. John was not going to wake up calling everything “ _Omelette du fromage_ ”. This was a joke that Mycroft had shared with Sherlock through a video clip. Obviously his brother knew about John’s little secret as well. Sherlock was waiting for John to tell him about the French lessons before he shared the clip.

“Sherlock?” John interrupted his train of thought with, “Have you killed the mould in 221C yet?”

“Experiments are proceeding. I shouldn’t go down there if I were you. I have warned Mrs. Hudson.” Sherlock dropped his steepled fingers and sat up quickly.

John sighed in frustration. “I would really like to start moving things down there from the fridge and cabinets. We have a month until the inspection, and I don’t want to wait until the last minute.”

The inspection. Yes, for the protection of the adopted, their flat must be sparkling in its cleanliness, and proven safe. Sherlock knew it had to happen eventually, but hadn’t been looking forward to it. “You could begin boxing files, John. And any laboratory equipment you find in the cabinets. For now, at least.”

“Yes, _we_ could be doing that, Sherlock. Have you finished filling out those forms Anthea brought over?” John rubbed his temples, eyes closed, as he relaxed into his chair.

“Signed, scanned, and sent. How far are we on the list?” Sherlock could feel amusement, as he’d not technically been working on the list.

John didn’t answer for a moment, then: “Not as far as I’d like.”

“You are implying that I am a roadblock in your efforts.” It was not a question. Statements worked just as well with John.

“No.” That answer was surprising. “You’ve done everything I’ve asked. This is a lot of hurry up and wait, Sherlock. Even with the paperwork expedited, we still move at the speed of bureaucracy.”

Sherlock stood and began to pace. John’s eyes opened and he watched the tall detective warily. “Perhaps it is time to discuss titles.”

“Titles?” John sounded confused. Best to be more concise and clear.

“Two men as parents,” Sherlock clipped out. “What do you wish to be called?”

John’s eyebrow began an ascent into his sand-coloured hairline. “I suppose that John doesn’t work.”

Sherlock, still pacing, responded as though it were not rhetorical. “There is a school of thought that adults should respond to children as though they are peers. I find that this will be difficult to sustain, especially given our lifestyle, and still provide the discipline and support that are required for optimal brain function. Titles, John, will take the place of our names. Not ‘Uncle John’ and ‘Uncle Sherlock’, as we will be the child’s parents. Father would be an obvious choice. Would you prefer it?”

“I had just thought ‘Dad’ for both of us,” John said with a smile. Sherlock found John’s enjoyment of his “topics for discussion” confusing. It was obviously not as though John had not thought these through on his own.

“Repetitive and confusing. Possibly not to the child so much as for us and those who interact within our family unit.” Sherlock began a loop around the room. “Similarly, ‘Dad’ and ‘Daddy’ would not be viable.”

John was catching on. “Too similar.”

“Exactly! Therefore, we must agree on sufficiently different titles before the child arrives.” Sherlock felt this was perfectly logical.

“What do you want to be called?” John cocked his head where it lay against the chair back.

Sherlock halted. “I had thought to give you first choice, John.”

“Oh. Okay. Yeah. I’d like to be Dad. Can’t picture you as ‘Dad’ anyway. Though you might be ‘Daddy’ easily enough.” John had to turn his head to watch his flatmate.

“It’s a diminutive. Suits you better.” Sherlock waved his thin hand.

“Making puns on my height is not endearing, Holmes,” John growled.

Sherlock turned a surprised face toward the doctor. “Unintentional, John. I meant that you would be more likely to suit the -” how to explain this? “- sweetness of the title. I am not sweet. I will never be sweet.”

John snorted. “And you think I am sweet?”

A puff of frustration. “I do not doubt that you will be more than sufficient with a disciplinary role. You are tough. You are pleasant. You are many things. You are John Watson. And you would be more appropriate to be Daddy in our child’s life than I.” Sherlock for once was having a difficult time reading John Watson’s expression. “Am I unclear?”

“No.” This time it was John who was drawling the word. “I understand your meaning. But I repeat, what would you like to be called then?”

His _pere_. Your _pere_. “ _Pere_.”

“ _Pere_ ,” John repeated, copying Sherlock’s accent. “Isn’t that just Father in French?” John’s amusement was clear.

“Yes. I find the plain English ‘Father’ brings me too much in mind of my own father. That is my father, Siger Holmes. It is not me, for some reason I cannot fathom. Would you have a similar issue with ‘Dad’?” Sherlock Holmes studied his friend.

John shook his head in negation. “No. No, Daddy is fine, with Dad later on.” He admitted, “I am looking forward to it, actually. Being called Dad.”

“Then we have it.” Sherlock threw himself back onto the sofa. “That’s settled.”

John snorted. “What will he call Mrs. Hudson?”

Sherlock blinked. “Mrs. Hudson?”

“Yes,” John repeated. “What will we have the baby call Mrs. Hudson?”

“John, do keep up. Mrs. Hudson is a perfectly viable title. Why would the baby call her anything else?” Sherlock knew this was one of those relationship things he was not good at.

John gave him a look and that engaging smile. “Because Mrs. Hudson will be, to all intents and purposes, the baby’s only grandparent. _Grand-mère_ , then?”

“ _Grand-mère_ ,” Sherlock corrected the accent distractedly, ignoring John’s quiet repetition of the pronunciation to lock it into his head. This was not something he had considered. “Is this something we should ask Mrs. Hudson, then?”

“Probably.” John stood up and stretched. “Your task.” He began to gather used dishes and glassware, empty bottles to carry to the kitchen.

“John.” Sherlock’s deep voice stopped him at the doorway.

“Yes, Sherlock?” John turned, three bottles hanging from as many fingertips.

“I give you Uncle Mycroft and Aunt Harry. Mostly because it will irritate Mycroft no end. But are you going to insist on a separate title for Lestrade and Molly and everyone else with whom we interact?”

John gave it some thought, juggling the plates. “I suppose it’s up to them, really. Don’t you? We can’t have the baby calling Greg ‘Detective Inspector Lestrade’, now can we?”

“I don’t think a baby could pronounce it! Mind you, I draw the line at Uncle Anderson and Aunt Sally.”

“Good Lord, no! I would draw the line at that as well.” John went off to wash dishes with a laugh.

After a moment Sherlock joined him, drying in turn, and making John laugh with titles such as “Grand Incompetent Inquisitor Anderson.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi. As many of you will be doing, it's time for NaNoWriMo.
> 
> I have the next four chapters of this fic written out, and will be posting them each Wednesday throughout the month of November, while I am working on my Dragon Age fic for National Novel Writing Month.
> 
> Good luck to all of you who will be taking on the challenge!
> 
> Also, you might note that some of the tags have changed. There will be sex. There will be an increase in the relationships. Just warning you.


	23. Invitation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Life goes on...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for beta-ing, Lunamoth116!

The invitation was on what John would have defined as quality stationery decorated with the seal of a prominent university. Addressed to “Dr. John H. Watson, Captain” and followed by his degrees, which surprised John enough that he opened the envelope. He knew Sherlock would have identified the weight, the stationer, and the postal station.

“Sherlock -” John was rereading it as he climbed the stairs “- I’ve been asked to speak at a conference in Glasgow.”

Holmes was not evident, and the doctor flipped his laptop open to scroll through the pile of emails he’d set aside for later review. The number of conversations he had become involved in since agreeing to assist Mycroft had become burdensome. John did not often comment in response, mostly reading for information, and there was a good deal of self-education required so that he wouldn’t look like a complete ass when he asked a question or gave an opinion.

There it was. Initial contact requesting John join them as a panel members on a discussion of trauma and battlefield surgical techniques. “Sherlock?” John thought his flatmate was home. Signs were there.

“John?” The man himself appeared in the bathroom doorway, wearing protective glasses, thick gloves, and a lab coat.

Dr. John Watson blinked. “You’re not destroying the W.C., are you?”

Sherlock scoffed. “The acid won’t get anywhere near the pipes, John!”

Speaking softly and with a measure of frustration, John said, “Still the spinal cords? Well, get back to them, then. We’ll talk about this over, what, Chinese?”

“Lo mein!” And the madman disappeared. John did not want to know what aspect of spinal cords had made his friend hungry for lo mein.

Later, he asked suspiciously and around a mouthful of fried rice: “This isn’t something that Mycroft set up, is it?”

Sherlock stopped picking through the lo mein for pea pods and directed those pale eyes at John. “You were thrilled at the recognition. Excited at the opportunity. Why are you now second-guessing and looking for a reason not to attend the conference?”

“I’m not,” his blond friend sputtered, “looking for a reason not to go!”

“Why would you even think that Mycroft has anything to do with this invitation?” Sherlock said in that inexorable tone.

“A pat on the head? For falling into line on what he wanted me to do…” John trailed off.

“John, and I can not believe I am saying this -” this was gentle “- Mycroft is not the Antichrist, manipulating you with carrots and sticks. You are a name in your own right. People know of you. Think of how many people assured you they were subscribers to your blog at that symposium at Bart’s last month. Slightly controversial, but not in anything that has to do with your medical background. They will be using your name as a draw for their conference.”

Relief bloomed on the doctor’s face. Sherlock glared at him, his tone matching the look. “Do you remember what you said to me when I asked if you were any good?”

John tilted his head. “Very good.”

“And so you have proven to be. They might know your name from the blog -” and the brunette consulting detective shuddered theatrically “- but that wouldn’t be enough to initiate an invitation to a medical conference. You have credentials. You earned them.” The tone was becoming more emphatic. “ _Captain_ Watson.”

John Watson hitched the corner of his mouth up and relaxed. He took another mouthful of fried rice, chewing and swallowing thoroughly before speaking again. “Hard to tell where that part of my life begins and ends when you and your brother are around.”

Sherlock made a noise of disgust. “Nonsense, John. The obvious answer to anything my brother asks you is no. You should have learned that by now.”

“Mycroft has never poisoned me, Sherlock.” John raised a sand-coloured eyebrow.

“And neither have I,” Sherlock volleyed back at him. “And I am certain that Baskerville will not be a subject of discussion at this conference. You do know that the more you use that, the less effective it becomes as a source of emotional blackmail?” He quickly ducked the pillow aimed at his head.

“Alright.” John nodded, more to himself than to his flatmate. “I guess I’m going to be a speaker in Glasgow.”

...

Trust issues. Sherlock was distracted. He should be paying attention to his experiment. Thoughts flying around his head. His friend, his flatmate deserved more than locum work and having to go away to a conference be honored for his…well, John-ness. On the other hand, Sherlock was annoyed that John would be away for a week at this conference in Glasgow. The consulting detective knew why John hadn’t suspected Sherlock of arranging this. Keep John away for a week, and who would assist Sherlock? Dr. John Watson thought that this was simply Sherlock’s selfishness keeping that aspect in check. It was far from simple. John was necessary. John was essential to The Work. Therefore, this was not selfishness.

Increase the blog’s popularity, and suddenly people wanted John to be with them, to answer their questions, to flutter at the edges of his flame. That flame was Sherlock’s conducted light, not theirs. The tall man bent down to examine the acid bath. Yes, the cords were not dissolving at an even rate. It proved his surmise, but even that was tedious at this point, since John was not in the flat to speak to about it. Speak _with_ about it. Short shift at the clinic. “Mrs. Hudson?” Sherlock bellowed down the stairs.

“Yes, Sherlock?” Her hip must be bothering her; Mrs. Hudson was calling from down the stairs.

“I will be down to work on the mould problem this afternoon. You might want to visit Mrs. Turner.” Yes, indeed, the destruction of a portion of the mould should hold his attention while he waited for the next check on the spinal cords.

“Alright, dear.” Yes, Mrs. Hudson was quite obviously distracted.

Sherlock fought against it. This was John’s territory. Perhaps he could wait and tell John when he arrived from the clinic? No. Sherlock would then want to have uninterrupted time to describe his experiments. Too, one never knew when Lestrade might call with a case. “Mrs. Hudson, is everything alright?” Sherlock came halfway down the steps.

That loving smile. Mrs. Hudson was distressed, but smiling because he had made an effort. Extraordinary. “Just heard that an old friend from school has passed on, dear.”

“Murdered?” Sherlock would certainly solve even a two for Mrs. Hudson, no matter the tedium.

“No, dear.” The loving smile became broader. There was a chuckle. “In her sleep after a long battle with cancer. We knew it was coming, but it’s still a shock, isn’t it?”

Sherlock swallowed. What would John do? The mouth opened, his mouth, and Sherlock heard the words flowing out. He tried to stop them, but they just kept on. “Would you like me to make you some tea? You can tell me about her.” The joy radiating from that beloved face was enough to prevent him from retracting his offer on the grounds that the mould would be more interesting.

...

John let himself in the door, picked up the mail from the floor and cycled through it, dropping Mrs. Hudson’s in the basket on the table. Voices sounded from the back; Sherlock was down in Mrs. Hudson’s, and, dropping the pile of circulars on the table, John sought them out. It was a picture.

Sherlock Holmes was seated on the flowered couch, with a sandwich in his hand that was apparently not being eaten, watching crap telly with Mrs. Hudson. John did not lean on doorways. He stood for a bit in the center of Mrs. Hudson’s open front door listening to clattering from the kitchen, watching Sherlock ignore him. Finally: “Oh, do come in, John. I failed to make the tea correctly, and Mrs. Hudson has been brave enough to set up a fresh pot.”

“You stew it,” John reminded his flatmate.

“Yes. I am aware. Mrs. Hudson has lost a friend to cancer. She and I were watching one of her appalling Australian soap operas to forget about it,” Sherlock sighed. 

“I’ll go and rescue you then, shall I? Lestrade sent me a text.”

A scowl. “I left my mobile upstairs. What sort of case? If it isn’t a seven, then I…perhaps Mrs. Hudson…”

Mrs. Hudson appeared in the hall from the kitchen and beamed at John. “Does the Detective Inspector need Sherlock? What are you waiting for, Sherlock? Go and get your coat. The dry one.”

When the long legs clattered up the stairs she confided in John, “He made such an effort to keep me company, John; I didn’t like to tell him to go.”

John smiled at the petite woman as she walked him to the foyer. “Yes, I’ll take him away now. You do know that you have us if you need anything, Mrs. Hudson? I’m sorry about your friend.”

“Of course. Thank you, John.” As the consulting detective came bolting down the stairs, she waved them both off. 

“Double homicide, Mrs. Hudson. Must dash!” And he was out the door. “Come on, John!”

In the cab, John asked, “What was that all about? You watching soaps with Mrs. Hudson.”

The reply was lofty. “If you aren’t around to do your job, John, then sometimes others must take it on.”

“My job?” John laughed. “To watch crap telly?”

Eyebrows were raised menacingly. “You are the nurturer, John. If it had been a murder, then I would have been of some assistance. No, of great assistance. Holding someone’s hand and listening to stories about schoolgirl hijinks is not my area.”

John stowed his smile and said seriously, if a mite sarcastically, “Thank you for filling in, then.”

“Laugh all you want, Watson,” Sherlock Holmes said severely. “But any time you think you are not needed, think of poor Mrs. Hudson trying to entertain me for an entire afternoon when I should have been getting on with the mould in 221C.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” was all John could think to reply.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To whomever wrote the story that mentioned the spinal cords in acid, thank you if you read this. I can't remember which story it is, or I'd have linked.
> 
> Also, typing in "spinal cords" "acid" and "sherlock holmes" brings up FAR too many hits on Google, even if you try to limit it to Archive of Our Own.


	24. "Greg?"  "John..."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A night with the boys at the pub.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I said I wouldn't be writing on this one during NaNoWriMo, but since I find I can't stop, I've posted one of the already writtens early... even if it's only by a day.

Greg sat at a table waiting for John, watching the dart competition on the other side of the room. It didn’t tempt him. Competition was for work. The glass of lager was going down well, and it was a quiet enough crowd for a weeknight. As it had been a rough sort of week, Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade was very grateful for a bit of down time. John Watson ducked in out of the rain, hair darkly wet, pulling off his windcheater jacket to hang in the entryway, crowded by a tall, thin, shadow who did not remove his beloved woolen coat. Greg sighed and waved them over. He smiled in welcome.

“John.” The Detective Inspector did his best not to include that sigh in the next greeting. “Sherlock.”

“Greg!” John’s grin was amazing. How did the man maintain his good humour?

“Lestrade.” Sherlock Holmes nodded in greeting, then disappeared to obtain a round of pints at the bar. 

John looked around, gauging the room, then up to thank his flatmate for the tallboy of dark liquid. Greg raised an eye at his own, not the lager he’d started with. “The owner brews his own. But he doesn’t serve it out to the general public. Porter, not lager, Lestrade, but more what you need on a night like this.” Sherlock took a sip of his own. “They used to believe that beer would replenish the blood.”

Lestrade followed suit. Cool, dark, flavourful, potent, and not what he’d ever pictured Sherlock Holmes drinking. John was looking him over. “What happened? Why would you need to replenish blood, Greg?”

Greg had thought he’d done fairly well at hiding the stab wound. Now he winced and moved his leg carefully. “A witness went mental at the Yard. Stabbed me with her size 12 chromium-plated knitting needles. Some blood loss, not much though. And I’ve had my tetanus jab.”

“Stiffness to his hand when he waved us over. He’s been using other muscles to compensate for the wound to the thigh.” Sherlock was not looking at either of them, his uncanny eyes scanning the other denizens of the pub. He dragged his gaze back when John snorted. “What?”

“Nothing, Sherlock. Why don’t you go show the competitors over there how it’s really done?” John’s smile was fond. “Nutter,” he mentioned amiably to Greg when Sherlock had dropped his coat and made his way across the room with his glass.

“You’re setting him loose in a pub, John?” Greg was concerned.

“He’s British, Greg. He’s been in the pub before.” That much was evident as the dart players greeted the tall, thin man with familiarity. “But watch,” John said quietly.

Sherlock’s posture was wrong. No longer ramrod straight and unable to keep still, he slouched, hands in his pockets, matching the stance of the men across the pub. His clothes didn’t look posh, and certainly not as well-tailored as the police officer knew them to be. More, it was an outfit settled on to pick up birds. The slouch was masculine and comfortable. Smiles back and forth at a number of girls seated together helped bring about the impression that Sherlock was looking for a hookup, as did a cheeky wink that Greg could see from here. He could hear Sherlock bantering back and forth with the dart players, and his voice was higher pitched, a definite accent that matched the men he was chaffing. Bills were brought out of pockets and dropped on the table as their friend was handed a round of darts. The first shot hit the edge of the target, at which Holmes cursed loudly and coarsely, corrected his stance and threw again. The rest flew straight to the center, not dead, but close enough. 

“That was for effect. He’s better than that,” Greg heard John say softly. “But it keeps him in practice to come and take them on from time to time. Doesn’t do to win too often or too perfectly.”

Greg turned to look at the shorter, blond man. “Holmes plays darts?”

John nodded. “I told you. He can be anyone in the room if he wants. Good practice for gathering information. Darts night at the pub? Not too good at Trivia night though. He drags me along for that. Pop culture is not his thing.”

Greg’s response was profane. “I just know him as himself. Even when he was a junkie he still talked all posh and public school, John.”

“You should see -” John took a drink and grimaced “- when he puts on a jumper and pretends to be me. Not flattering.”

Sherlock’s voice, normal now that he had rejoined them. “Not meant to be flattering, John. It’s to be you. How can you be offended?” that baritone demanded. “I find you to be extraordinary the way you are.”

Greg Lestrade looked back and forth. “You do imitations?” he finally asked the consultant.

“Disguises.” Sherlock had gone back to examining the room.

“Go ahead,” John encouraged. “Do a nursery rhyme then.”

Nursery rhyme? Greg looked at the younger man who gave him a cool smile, face framed by dark curls. Sherlock’s posture changed again, not exactly military, but the voice, the flavour of the words, not to mention the tongue slipping out to glide over the lower lip, was John. “Mary, Mary quite contrary.”

“How does your garden grow?” Now it was Lestrade, tired, exasperated with Holmes, demanding an answer. Sherlock was no longer looking at Greg. His eyes were intent on John Watson, drinking in the reaction.

“With silver bells -” Donovan’s adenoidal tone, higher pitched and smug “- and cockle shells...

“...And pretty maids all created from snips and snails and puppy dog tails lined up over there, obviously.” Anderson’s self-importance mangled the end of the rhyme.

“That was...” Greg could only stare at the pale face still aimed at the doctor.

“Amazing!” John burst out, unable to keep it inside.

Sherlock Holmes’s mouth crooked up on the side toward Greg. The detective inspector wondered how John could not see what Greg was viewing at this moment. John lived with the man. How did he not notice? What was it that Sherlock always said? “You see, but you do not observe”? Against all common sense the silver haired man found himself asking, “Can you do Mycroft?”

Sherlock’s head whipped round to stare, eyes wide, mouth open, astonished, possibly horrified. “Lestrade, no!” It was only a moment, then recovery; the man turned back to his flatmate, face overly and comedically shocked. He said emphatically, “I will not ‘do my brother’ for either of you!” He downed the last third of his porter, then banged it on the table’s laminated surface. “Your round, John. More of the same, please!”

John laughed, looked at his glass, finished the little sloshing at the bottom, and looked to Greg for a nod. They watched him make his way to the bar before Sherlock turned to look Greg in the eye. “So. Lestrade. You’re ‘doing my brother’.” His accusation was aghast.

“Why don’t you want John to know?” Greg knew how perceptive the Holmeses were. Hard to be surprised that Sherlock had gotten an idea just from how Greg pronounced Mycroft’s name. Greg couldn’t have helped himself; it was familiar now, said with some proprietary interest.

“I spent three years dead to make certain that you, Mrs. Hudson, and John were safe. Do you think I would have done that alone if John could keep his emotions from the world?” Sherlock waved to where his friend and flatmate was leaning on the bar deep in discussion with the grey-haired bartender, as she cleaned her hands on a cloth, then proceeded to illustrate whatever she was saying with her large hands.

“He’s doing a fair job there. You know how he feels about being asked for free medical advice.” Greg stifled a laugh.

Sherlock growled, “Lestrade, please. You tell him about Mycroft and you, and his mind will conjure up wildly inappropriate visions next time he is kidnapped. Do you really believe that he could keep that from my brother? Worse, he will make me giggle when I’m supposed to be ignoring things.”

The laugh escaped. “Alright. But he’s going to find out eventually.”

Sherlock’s horrified gaze was locked on the face of the man beside him.

“Sherlock, Mycroft will figure out that you know. There is no way you will be able to keep it from him yourself. And I’m not ashamed of this relationship, it’s gone way beyond a shag now and then.” Sherlock gagged, but Lestrade gamely went on, “I feel very strongly about your brother.”

“Stop! No more!” Having delivered the directive, Sherlock’s face swiveled back to John H. Watson, who was now surrounded on all sides by the table of attractive women with whom Sherlock had been flirting. The young women were looking at the Detective Inspector and the Consulting Detective and giggling.

“Sherlock? What about you and John?” Greg started only to have the man turn a black gaze upon him.

A deep breath, then: “Lestrade, not you as well. Is it not bad enough that we hear it from everyone else?” Alright then, Holmes did not want to admit to it. Emotions, not a Holmes thing, as Gregory Lestrade was finding out intimately.

John left them to make his way back with their drinks, making further discussion impossible. “Those three women would like to know if we three are available. They’ve given me their numbers.”

John looked back to where the women were putting on coats and watching them. He looked amused. Greg gave the “flattered but already taken” smile. Sherlock grabbed his drink from John’s hand, flashed an entirely false but charming show of teeth and a wink, then swallowed down a quarter of the porter.

Sitting down John asked, “Speaking of which, how are things going with your friend, Greg? Still early days?”

“Going well, John.” It was grinned. “Might be moving to a bit more serious.”

Sherlock began to cough. “Beer down the wrong tube?” John asked him in sympathy.

Waving his hand Sherlock, face flushed, ground out, “Fine. I’m fine. It’s all fine.”

John turned attention back to Greg. “So? When do we meet this mysterious person?” At Sherlock’s rather loud groan, he amended, “Well, then, when can I meet your friend? We’ll leave Sherlock at home with his experiments on spinal cords.”

“When the time is right.” Greg decided that he was enjoying this.

“You’ve found things in common then?” John asked interestedly. “If you’re getting serious?”

“Yeah! We both like to cook,” Greg started.

“And eat, I’m sure,” Sherlock muttered.

Greg gave him a look. “We have a lot of laughs.” When Sherlock rolled those pale eyes, the Detective Inspector smiled and went on, “And we’re physically very compatible.”

Holmes, who had been about to drink, set the glass down suddenly. Taking a deep breath the dark-haired man opened his mouth, then shut it firmly.

Greg and John were both looking at their friend - John in confusion, Lestrade with a slight smirk. Sherlock refused to look at either of them, concentrating finally on imbibing his porter. Greg took pity, asked if John had made a decision about the adoption.

Sherlock waited, watched John as he nodded and admitted to having agreed to the process, and that the paperwork had been filled out and submitted. Sherlock and Greg had a discussion about mirror neurons. Well, Sherlock initially explained why he would not be bringing any children to crime scenes, then went on to lecture on the neurons. Greg was surprisingly interested, especially when Holmes went on to discuss brain development with regard to lack of self-control and the limbic system.

John’s impression, as they left to walk back to Baker Street, was that the evening had gone fairly well. Except for Sherlock’s comment about Mycroft; John had noticed that it made Greg uncomfortable. Understandable. One didn’t like to be placed in a position between defending a superior, even someone not directly senior, and causing a scene or just letting something inappropriate go. John was confident he could work on improving the Holmes siblings relationship somehow. After all, they really did love each other. How difficult could it be?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to my beta, Lunamoth116, who is going through the past chapters at an alarming rate! Still and all, I keep finding tweaks that need to be made. Let me know if you find a typo too, or something that is not British.


	25. Mycroft Redux

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John, being a sweet man, makes overtures to Sherlock's brother. No, not THOSE kinds of overtures...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to my beta, Lunamoth116!

“Mycroft, what does family mean to you?” John had invited Sherlock’s brother for tea. Sherlock was not present, and that was entirely planned.

“Curious, Dr. Watson?” It was said frostily. Mycroft was not certain why he had agreed to meet with the doctor. Tea had been set up. Very nicely, the thin and finicky man admitted to himself, and including some biscuits that Mycroft particularly liked. Reaching for one with an equally thin hand, he wondered if his host had asked Sherlock for that information, or figured that out on his own. It never did well to underestimate John Watson. He tended to surprise them all.

“Yeah,” John admitted. “Of course. The baby is your nephew. Not to mention flesh and blood.”

“Inconvenient.”

“Family is inconvenient? Or the question?” John’s amusement made Mycroft’s smile tighten. Mycroft had never been certain about Sherlock’s relationship with this man. From that first meeting, when he’d tried to take the measurement of the short, blond former soldier, John tended to wrong-foot him. Obviously, as an unstable soldier, possibly suicidal, definitely suffering from Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, he should have gone the way of all other persons in his brother’s life. A touch, and then driven away. But John, tough and loyal, had not gone somewhere else, telling stories about his moment with the odd, driven madman. John had stayed, and not only remained at Sherlock’s side, but had weathered Kitty Riley’s vitriol and the knives of the British Press to continue his support of Sherlock’s genius all alone after Sherlock’s “death”. Even more unexpected, John would be raising a child with his younger brother, and all without the benefit of a sexual or romantic relationship.

“I know how much you love Sherlock,” John began. Mycroft’s hands holding the tea mug stilled as John went on, “And I’ve heard you speak of your mother. Please don’t give me your mantra that ‘Caring is not an advantage’.”

“Was it an advantage when you thought my brother was dead?” Mycroft had watched Watson - of course he had - while Sherlock was away. For a time he had been concerned - well, not concerned exactly - that the doctor would find a way to end his life.

John gave it thought. “I was alive.” His voice was steady, but the hint of devastation was still there. “It was horribly, bitterly painful. But I would not trade knowing Sherlock Holmes for any amount of advantage. Would you have preferred being an only child?”

“I asked my parents for a brother. When Sherlock was born, it seemed a gift.” Mycroft was not looking at John. John had been a gift, though Mycroft had not known it at the time. Within a month of John moving into 221B, Sherlock had gained weight from moderately regular meals, was sleeping somewhat regularly, and had attempted to give up smoking. Mycroft had relaxed. Then Moriarty had appeared.

“Harriet and I are so close in age, I just remember her being always there. Always together. Never much alike. Forcing two very differently shaped pieces into a jigsaw puzzle.” John sipped his tea.

“Of course, you do still love your sister.” Pointed, with Mycroft continuing to look away. It was true; he did love his brother, strongly, and as families went, passionately. Oh, not in a sexual way. Mycroft’s bond with his brother was exceeded only by his sense of duty to the Commonwealth. Jim Moriarty had played Mycroft’s concerns against each other.

John laughed. “I don’t really like her very much most of the time. We played together if she wanted. Mostly I was with the kids down street, or off by myself. Harriet was more interested in being with the popular gang.”

Mycroft put his cup down on the saucer. “That must have irritated her exceedingly when the popular gang tended to prefer your company.”

“What makes you say that?” John asked with interest. He did not deny it.

“You ease situations. You are experienced in interacting with many different types of people, Dr. Watson. There is also your sense of humour. You cannot tell me that you were unpopular in school.” Mycroft Holmes was examining him narrowly.

“You Holmeses.” John shook his head. “No, I was not popular, Mycroft. I was a grind, not someone busy with the party scene. No drugs, little alcohol. People tended to let me be myself. I made them laugh. But not enough for them to seek me out. And I was defense on the footie team. Not star quality.”

Mycroft steepled his hands, reminiscent of his brother. “And yet you were on the school’s team. John -” then, once he had the man’s attention “- were you bullied in school?”

“Not to speak of,” John admitted.

“Did the star player of the team say ‘hello’ in the halls?” Mycroft’s eyes were like lasers.

John shifted uncomfortably. “Yah, but everyone said ‘hi’ in the halls. People just talk to me. It’s not like I got invited to parties, Mycroft, or dated the high class girls.”

“Parties?” Mycroft was still watching him. “Was this how Harry got involved in her drinking problem?”

“It was a start, yeah,” John said carefully.

“Sherlock’s first experience with cocaine came when one of what you would call the ‘popular’ boys ‘befriended’ him and entertained the group with Sherlock at a party.”

John’s saliva was suddenly acid, sour and awful. “I hope the bastard popular boy came to a nasty end.”

“It was with some difficulty, and years later, that we removed Victor from Sherlock’s life.” Mycroft turned his face away, concentrating on reaching for his teacup. “In the end, of course, it had to be Sherlock’s decision.”

“This was at uni?” John’s question came sharply.

A nod from Mycroft and then: “John.” The doctor had never heard the minor government official quite so diffident. “What exactly are you expecting? Of me? With regard to the child?” Mycroft did not think he had it in him to be the doting uncle. It flashed through his mind that he would not make a very good father, but Sherlock might.

“Mycroft.” John’s laugh invited one to join in. Mycroft could see why Sherlock’s laugh had returned. Previous to John, Mycroft had not heard it since Sherlock went away to school. John was continuing: “It is entirely up to you. Your involvement. I just want you to be aware that you are welcome.”

Mycroft took a sip of tea to gain time. John - of course, John would welcome him. His smile was thin, but present. “What were your uncles like, John?”

“Well,” John mused, “they’re all gone now. Mum’s and Dad’s brothers. Didn’t have much to do with us kids beyond telling us to quiet down, or slipping us the odd sweet when Mum wasn’t looking. It was a different time. Mum’s sister, Aunt Harriet, used to get frantic when we climbed the pine tree in her front yard. Uncle William would roll his eyes and go out to the garage for a smoke, knowing we’d find our way in there and play with the animals he carved out of bits of wood.”

“Sherlock and I have cousins, but they are scattered around the world. Mostly in Canada. Uncle Martin and Aunt Tamara still live in the south of France. Aunt Tamara taught us both Russian, and took us to the ballet. She was an avid balletomane. She and Uncle Martin were married after they met on a diplomatic mission. Their sons were older than Sherlock and I. I have memories of playing with them, but when Sherlock was born they were too old to be interested in pirates and very little boys.” Mycroft shook his head. “I have never met their children. I do not believe that Sherlock is in communication with them.”

That had been Mycroft’s duty, to keep in touch. He had, though mostly to ensure that none of the family got into trouble. “There was one cousin younger than Sherlock. Mignonette. Very much a surprise baby. Sadly, she died in infancy.”

John wondered if there were any way to bring this discussion to a more cheerful level. Certainly he should be able to broach Mycroft’s and Sherlock’s estrangement. Mycroft was looking at him. John gave the auburn-haired man his attention.

“John, I realize that you would like to make -” a pause “- Sherlock’s and my relationship easier. This is, of course, something that we will have to work out ourselves.”

“Don’t you think -” John found himself going off half-cocked “- that there has to be more to life than The Work?” He hadn’t meant to say that. It wasn’t pity. Mycroft all alone. John was alone too. Well, no, there was Sherlock. And now the doctor was going to have a family with the man. It wasn’t the same, was it? But Mycroft worked with dedication. No doubt there were pleasures to be had, aspects of power that suited Mycroft. Alone. With Anthea, but Anthea did not particularly count.

“What do you suggest, Dr. Watson?” Mycroft was distancing himself from this good, tough little man. Was John aware that Sherlock was in love with him? Mycroft doubted that highly. Mycroft was unsure whether or not Sherlock was aware. Mycroft was certain that John was unaware of his relationship with Detective Inspector Lestrade. All signs pointed to lack of awareness.

John rubbed a hand through his sand-coloured hair. “I don’t know. Life has to be more than dedication to a set of principles. It’s about friendships and family.” And love, but John wouldn’t bring that up to be scoffed at. “Otherwise, you end up like Jim Moriarty.”

That was a _non sequitur_. Mycroft refused to allow himself to blink. “What would you believe Moriarty’s dedicated principles to be, John?”

“Sowing chaos.” John’s mouth compressed. “Proving how superior he was. It was all he had in the end. And it wasn’t enough, was it?”

A clatter of long limbs up the stairs, and Sherlock came bursting into the room. “Mycroft -” his deep voice was flat “- out!” But there was no vehemence in the tone.

John, still seated, looked up with innocence shining from that normally placid face. “Sherlock? I invited Mycroft over to talk.”

“And have cakes, it seems.” Sherlock threw himself onto the sofa next to his flatmate.

John was removing the cosy to pour a cup for Sherlock. “The ones you like are on a plate in the kitchen. Mrs. Hudson baked them this morning.”

A huff, and no movement from his position on the couch. John placed the cup and saucer on the coffee table in front of Sherlock, then rose and retrieved a plate of biscuits. “Since you don’t want them...” John took one and had a bite. “Mycroft, would you like one of these?”

“Mine!” Sherlock sat up and joined them, retrieving the biscuit plate with a deft hand. The plate went on his lap, and he dunked one of the cakes into the hastily snatched cup of darjeeling. “You’re not here to talk of the Initiative. And you’re not worried about me. What have you asked Mycroft to bore you about this time?”

With gravity, Mycroft said, “John asked me here to invite my participation in your son’s childhood.”

Sherlock’s look of horror was only partially dramatised. “John!”

“We spoke about this, Sherlock. Family. The baby will have it.” My, but Mycroft was finding humor in the determination of this short, astute man.

“Mycroft could start his own family. No need to be _handcuffed_ -” there was definite emphasis on that last word “- into our relationship. Is it still 2.5, the number of the standard, _ordinary_ family?” It was said in that rebellious tone, but the words set off alarms in Sherlock’s brother. “And John, do you really want us to be under even more Inspection?”

Mycroft glanced at John and read no comprehension in his face. John’s lack of awareness was legendary. Sherlock, on the other hand, was glaring at his brother with a wicked fascination.

Controlling the tic that threatened, Mycroft carefully took another sip of tea. “I am not currently in a position to do so, Sherlock. As you are well aware.”

Sherlock dunked another cake in his tea with assumed nonchalance. “Things could change, Mycroft. Even you could get lucky. I am sure we know plenty of nice, regular...”

John, missing the point, interrupted, “Well, if and when Mycroft decides to start his own family, then all the more reason to have him involved with Siger.”

“Siger?” Mycroft started. He looked at Sherlock.

“Siger Hamish Holmes.” His brother dunked another cookie viciously, bit it with a snap.

Mycroft Holmes examined his brother. Sherlock had the temerity to grin, bared teeth as though he were going to bite. Mycroft found himself smiling at Sherlock as he had not for a very long time. “I believe that is a splendid name. Thank you, Sherlock.”

It took the wind out of his brother’s sails. John’s smile was bright enough in relief for all three of them. Mycroft could see some interesting possibilities in this new idea of family. Very interesting possibilities indeed. “That having been said -” Mycroft rose, straightening his vest “- I believe it is time for me to exit.”

John smiled, but whatever he had been about to say was lost when Sherlock stood. “I will walk you out.” Shooting a suspicious glance at his flatmate, John began to gather the tea items.

There was no conversation as the Holmeses took the staircase. “Sherlock,” Mycroft began.

“I won’t tell John. He hasn’t figured it out. Yet,” Sherlock spoke quietly. “But Mycroft - Lestrade?”

“Greg is good company, Sherlock. I have little enough time to spend with anyone. Greg understands the limitations.” And how often had he given up any hope of a relationship because of his work? How often had it interfered with Sherlock? It took patience and understanding. Greg had spent years watching over his brother. Difficult to put it into words, when so much in the way of emotions was taboo between him and Sherlock.

Sherlock’s raspberry lightened the heavy atmosphere. “Just don’t speak of it again, and we will be fine. John wanted to mend fences between us, Mycroft. He doesn’t understand. But he is right in one thing. You will be welcome to a relationship with your nephew. And any further children beyond that as well.”

Mycroft looked Sherlock in the eye. Giving a nod, he walked out the door to 221B twirling his umbrella. Perhaps it was fitting that Moriarty’s threat to burn Sherlock’s heart out had led, instead, to an increase in the family. Difficult to say. Mycroft would have to wait to see.


	26. Time passes...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock thinks a little too much, John dreams, and someone plots...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to Lunamoth116 for beta-ing!

Dreaming was no good. Sherlock accepted that REM sleep was required to keep his brain from a psychotic break. At times dreams were useful. Like John, dreaming gave him a new outlook into a current puzzle or problem, and there had been instances when the dark-haired consulting detective had woken from his “impossible to completely avoid” downtime to see the answer staring him in the face. Other times it was useless. Distracting. Like this morning, when dawn had greeted him yet again with a stiff and uncomfortable penis. Problem. The frequency of these morning erections had increased. Sherlock had succumbed to one nocturnal emission since his return to London following his death, and after that had instituted a regimen of masturbation when needed.

As John did, Sherlock tended to masturbate in the shower. It was easier to allow the semen to wash down the drain than to deal with a wet spot in the bedding. The sound of water running drowned out any revealing sounds he might make. Of course, when he used the shower now he also had begun to think of John using the shower. Running those soapy, capable hands along the sand-coloured trail leading down his belly. Water running across pectorals, gluteals. 

Frustrating. Sherlock was trying not to think of John in a sexual manner. His transport was not cooperating. A vision, a sexual fantasy of his flatmate, on his knees under the spray of hot water, hair darker when wet, taking Sherlock’s penis in his mouth and doing all of the things that Sherlock had learned about in his experimentation. The fantasies were never one of his actual sexual partners. Had never been, even when Sherlock was engaged in studying sexuality.

There was bath oil in the cabinet under the vanity. A plastic tube of a green bottle with cheerful-looking green frog-like things disporting in a hot spring. Purchased for a case, John had stuck it below the vanity when tidying clutter, then started using it, though he never took a bath. Sherlock had been able to smell it, light and neutral, on John at one point when they had been in close quarters. After that Sherlock started to look for the scent on him. Not floral or feminine. The plastic was familiar in Sherlock’s hand now, and the oil was not particularly cold as he slicked up his hand and began to stroke.

What did John think about when he was in the shower? Was it of any of those insufferable females he had brought to the flat? Did he stand, that strong, scarred body, only gone a little soft since leaving the army, running his oiled hand along a hardened, sensitive shaft thinking of Sarah?

Unlikely that John would think of any man, and certainly not of Sherlock. Though Jeanine had been tall, dark haired, with fair skin. Contrary to what Sherlock had pretended, the consulting detective had never actually forgotten any of the names. He just refused to use them correctly. Sherlock had not wanted them in Baker Street, much less in John’s life.

Adjusting the nozzle of the shower, the tall, dark-haired man imagined what it would be like to kneel in front of John. Bending down, that height difference even kneeling, to take him into his mouth. It had been a long time since Sherlock had performed fellatio on anyone. Or cunnilingus. Gender had not mattered when Sherlock was attempting to understand bodily and emotional reactions to intimacy.

The image of touching John, of using his mouth on his friend - it was not helping. If anything, it made the erection worse. Sighing, Sherlock called up the image again of John on his knees in front of him, water dripping from his body, mouth moving on Sherlock’s hard-on. Sherlock’s hand moved, wrapped around and worked the stiff flesh as quickly as feasible without causing chafing. 

No. There was a better way. John was left-handed. Sherlock switched, leaning against the tiled wall on his right, oiled left taking himself in hand. Thrusting fast and hard into his fist he envisioned John behind him, shorter body pressed to his, hand reaching around and moving knowledgeably, the same rhythm as John might use on himself.

Sherlock bit his lip and came all over his own hand.

Of course, it took him a few moments to return to himself, to clean up and soap the oil from his body and hand. Turning the water hotter, Sherlock felt his muscles relax. By the time he climbed out of the shower, the man had almost convinced himself that a hot shower was just the thing to wake one up in the morning. Certainly it had the most relaxing effect on tight muscles.

...

John was dreaming. Soothing, someone was petting his hair. Waking up, he rarely remembered what he had dreamt or who had been in his dreams. John Watson, no longer Captain Watson, preferred that. The dreams of Afghanistan were not appearing as often. Chlorine-scented visions of the pool stopped by from time to time to give John the sweats. He still saw Sherlock attempting to emulate a bird from the top of Saint Bart’s as well. Best not to push his luck and try to remember the dreams. When he did, they were written down. Not in his public blog, thank you very much. But he did keep track. Just in case. Not just for Ella.

Ah, Sherlock was already up when John trailed downstairs, chenille bathrobe open to show a worn white tee shirt and a comfortable pair of boxers. John stared at himself in the reflection of the kettle and made a face. Brushing his hair first thing in the morning seemed a waste when he was just going to get it wet anyway in the shower later. Still, it stood up and he looked a right git.

Anyway. Kettle. He didn’t even ask. Just made two cups of tea, buttered toast, poured honey on Sherlock’s, and spread marmalade on his own, then carried them out to the sitting room. “Eat that.” It was an order as he placed the plate on his flatmate’s stomach. The tea went on the table within reach. Drinking the tea was not an issue. Getting suitable nutrients into his flatmate before running out to do who knew what, was.

Sitting at the desk the blogger flipped open his laptop. “There’s a note from Jack and Mary,” he offered. At his flatmate’s grunt he continued, “They say that everyone’s healthy. No evidence of any tropical diseases since our first visit. The Dormitory D inhabitants want to know what to show for Film Night the next time we go down to the Initiative.”

That got a look of surprise. “I see no need to watch further films.”

John began to type. “I’ll tell them James Bond. The Roger Moore ones.”

“John!” Sherlock sat up, scrabbling to catch the plate of toast. “Absolutely not!”

A snicker. “I told them pirate films.” John kept on typing.

Now Sherlock’s look was thoughtful. “That would,” he said slowly, “be acceptable. But only if you watch them with us.”

“Wouldn’t miss it.” John was still snickering.

“You fell asleep last time,” Sherlock teased. 

John gave him a smug sideways smile. “I was still there.”

Sherlock flexed his hand, remembering the weight of John’s head on his leg, the softness of John’s sand-coloured hair. Leaning back he took a bite of the toast, tilting it to catch the honey, listening to the clicking of John’s hunt and peck typing in the background. A small price to pay, a few moving pictures, if there was a possibility of making John laugh. Pleasant thoughts, and they distracted him while he swallowed down his toast and tea.

…

The man reading the lengthy email was short, pot-bellied, and had hair styled in an elaborate combover. Holmes and Watson, interfering. Again. Holmes, Holmes and Watson, he amended. It was not worth capture by Mycroft Holmes to send in new and explicit instructions to his spy. Fool, utter fool to repeat the idiocy from before. A warning needed to be sent. Flowers. He knew exactly what would cause an extreme allergic reaction. Not enough to kill, but certainly something that would cause some discomfort. His spy would know exactly who sent them, and what they meant.

Holmes was his to deal with, not some idiot subordinate. Dr. Culverton Smith knew exactly how to manage overconfident Mr. Sherlock Holmes. First, though, he needed to get Dr. John Watson out of the way.


	27. Second Initiative Visit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Second of three appointments to investigate conditions at the Initiative.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to my beta, Lunamoth116! We have now updated everything.

John was happy that Sherlock was able to come with him to the Initiative for the second set of interviews. It had been in doubt, with a serial killer on the loose carrying away heads in buckets. The end result was to be a wall of skulls, but instead it was more of a kerb by the time Lestrade and his officers followed Sherlock’s input to the murderer’s house. After much complaint about the criminal classes lacking, well, everything these days, Sherlock had raced in the door of 221B as John was carrying his suitcase out, ready to catch a taxi to the train station.

John, who did not drive, ended up being driven by Sherlock in a hired car. As Sherlock put it, “Always better to have the means to escape at your fingertips.”

With a pointed look, John indicated the suit bag and larger suitcase that his flatmate insisted on bringing, next to his own small case. Sherlock responded with a supercilious smile, then brought up the next topic for discussion: a diaper service, cloth nappies, or disposables. It was a long - a very long - drive. John would have to come up with something more interesting for the next trip. 

Their assigned room was the second one they’d shared during their last visit. It had the advantage of being closer to the center of support staff activity, including the kitchens, and the disadvantage of little privacy and much more noise during peak work hours.

John started off this visit by interviewing the doctors he’d not met before, met briefly with the doctors he had met, then settled down to talk with the surrogates and midwives. Everyone knew his name and purpose now, or thought they did. The doctor discovered that Sherlock had made some statements on their last visit that had been passed along as wildfire spreads - with abandon, eating up the least little bit of fuel.

Flirtation, light and easily deflected before, had become a rather stronger issue. “Oh, yes,” one of the film night habituees had smiled at him, leaning closer with wide eyes. “Sherlock told us that you’re single. And straight.”

Well, that was good of Sherlock, John supposed. Apparently Sherlock had also managed to convey the impression that the consulting detective was gay. At least the surrogates believed that. And so they told him things that women normally don’t say to men, but will to a gay friend. The information that John was adopting one of the babies with Sherlock seemed to have been left in the dust of memory.

The doctors, mostly female, did not believe in the consulting detective’s homosexuality, and by the time their evening meal with the Medical Staff had come round, Sherlock was off on a whirl of flirtation and innuendo. Jack was not at the Initiative for this month, and so Mary had not been invited to the dinner. John watched Sherlock portraying the dizzy, promiscuous male, gathering gossip, and concentrated on the food, which was quite edible. In this gathering his role seemed to be simply as “friend to the available wealthy prospect”, instead of a possibility himself. All of these women and men were medical doctors in their own right. No interest in snaring a “wealthy doctor”, especially when each and every one of them were making much more than Clinic Practician John H. Watson. Holmes, however, apparently meant money to them.

John kept his mouth closed, except in response to the queries of others and to put food into it, and wished that he could read whatever his flatmate was texting to him. The plan this time had been to divide and conquer, and so Sherlock was taken for a walk through the grounds after dinner, while John went back to their rooms and expanded on his notes for the day.

It was on the second day that Doctor Watson was made aware of something different. The first hand that slipped across his arse - well, John attributed that to accidental contact. By the third grope he was certain that accident was not involved. The fourth was a fat pinch, and made John jump. Looking back, the crowd of chaperoned surrogates who had just passed him in the hallway were all giggling and determinedly not looking back at him.

John Watson did not swear, but he did spend the remainder of the day with his back to the wall in crowds, and jumpy in the hallways. “What the hell?” he demanded of Sherlock at the end of the day. “I have never been so bruised on my bum. Not even among the female American Marines!”

Oh, that amused his beanpole flatmate. “Turnabout is fair play?” the git suggested.

“Are you saying that I go about pinching women?” John flared up. “Because I know when to keep my hands to myself, thank you very much!”

There was worse to come. A doctor friend of one of the midwives, also Royal Army Medical Corps, had supplied the nickname “Three-Continents Watson”, and John heard it over and over throughout the course of the next few days. 

John Watson was not afraid of assertive women. Lately his dates had been rather the opposite, however, a change of pace from what he had to deal with at home in 221B. The doctor was not fond of shrinking violets, and really, the effort to draw them out compared with the tendency to attach overly much meaning to a modest flirtation guaranteed that he was unlikely to date such. Here at the Initiative, this time, these women were anything but shrinking violets. 

“Oh, by the way,” Sherlock mentioned lightly, “Jack sent a note reminding me that pregnant women are roiling masses of hormones. So we can expect anything from tears to anger, to nesting, to -” and there John cut him off.

“I am very well aware of what pregnant women are like, Sherlock. I am willing to bet I have far more experience with them than you.” It was admittedly snippy.

That got a laugh. “Not with living with them, John. In large quantities, and feeding off of each other. That’s something we both can learn about. It’s fascinating, and I have gleaned more data about hormonal reactions than I thought would be evident!”

Sighing, John admitted that truth, and the pair of them went to meet the midwives for dinner. Again, very different from the Medical Staff meal; chicken roasted with beer this time, moist and comforting food, with oven roasted vegetables and a fairly extensive salad. Though missing Jack Watson’s presence, Thomson, Sherlock, and John got along quite well, and the meal with the ladies was congenial. At least, John was not getting hit on or pinched at the table, nor was Sherlock.

Sherlock started a - John could not call it discussion, argument rather - on disposable diapers as opposed to cloth nappies. It was a far more volatile subject than John had expected. As such, the doctor - wisely, he felt - stayed out of the way and listened intently. Watching his flatmate’s face, John became convinced that the entire topic of discussion had been a setup by his friend to stave off boredom. That belief was strengthened when the next topic for discourse that the consulting detective suggested was nursing compared to formula.

Obviously, nursing was to be preferred, but John really did not see how he and Sherlock were going to be able to do that. He said as much with a small smile. Therein followed a lecture from the thin Indian woman on the possibility of purchasing mother’s milk. Then a discussion started on the recent study claiming that lack of regulation in the available supply spread germs, often to the baby’s detriment. “Six dollars an ounce,” one of the women said of a breast milk bank. “And they don’t often have it to spare except for preemies and children with issues.”

In the middle of all this, John looked over at Sherlock to find the tall man listening with steepled fingers, concentrating on the comments flying all over the room. _Drinking it in_ , John Watson thought before he began to cough on the beer that had gone down his throat the wrong way when he realized his pun.

The final night, of course, was the film evening with the surrogates in Dormitory D. Mary Morstan chaperoned, sitting in her corner with a new bit of crochet in red, white and green. John had worn his lab coat all day, keeping a desk between himself and any women, and admitted to himself that he had reservations about entering the territory of so many seeming bent on leering at him. Sherlock solved the problem by pointing to the corner of the sofa, his position the last time they’d been here, and seating himself directly between the doctor and the female surrogates.

John’s sigh of immense relief caused a smile to quirk up from the corner of the detective’s mouth, and initiated teasing from the thirty-odd inhabitants of the dormitory. The packed atmosphere lightened. The short blond man was able to mimic cluelessness quite well, while Sherlock’s sarcastic comments gave John the opportunity to play straight man and bring laughs at his own expense. It was all good.

The initial movie for the evening was _The Princess Bride_. John quite liked it, swashbuckling for Sherlock and heroic adventure for himself. There was much commenting, not just from the tall brunette at his side, but from the rest of the audience as well. They’d seen the film often enough to know the entire script by heart.

After came _The Pirates of Penzance_ , which John did not know, but Sherlock did, quite well. Gilbert and Sullivan was part and parcel of his musical childhood, and John was told that Mycroft could sing all of the patter songs very well. There was singing; John was not involved in that, as he did not know the words, but his flatmate had a tuneful baritone and did not hit a single off note - not even when mimicking Mabel, the lead soprano.

Finally, for they only had three films for the night, came _The Pirates: Band of Misfits_. John had seen this, on a date. He’d enjoyed it, but not to the point of mania. The ladies knew it well, and called out trivia, while Sherlock countered with actual pirate history. Then the tall, dark, deep-voiced git got it into his head that the pirate with a scarf sounded exactly like John. John pointed out that scarves were Sherlock’s area, not his, but after the movie was done they walked back to their room with Sherlock coaxing his flatmate to quote lines from the aforementioned scarved pirate.

No attacks, beyond the pinching of John’s arse, and John was beginning to feel that this Initiative would work out exactly as Mycroft and his experts had proposed. They headed for home the next day, with Sherlock humming Gilbert and Sullivan all along the way.


	28. Picture Revelation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John notices some things.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to Lunamoth116 for beta-ing!!!

It consumed time, typing out these notes to the unborn child. John tried to think of what he wanted to know about his family, about his parents. Things he’d have asked them, if he could. Their absence was what motivated him now. The scrapbook would include photographs, examples of Sherlock’s sketching from The Work, and anything John could think of to convey the flavor of them both. It had hit John in the middle of a medical crisis at the clinic that death comes to us all, and Sherlock Holmes was not the type to reminisce. Hence the scrapbook. Perhaps it would be best to think of it in less than a ”This Is In Case of Death” situation. John found he could not.

Their lives weren’t particularly easy to foretell. As for the past, John didn’t know all that much about Sherlock’s. Just what his flatmate had told him recently, for the most part, like the bit about the family and physical affection. Sherlock seemed, in a way, trying to move past that. Certainly he’d a lack of understanding about John’s personal space. Always had. Other than those bits, there were the items he’d learned over the years from Mycroft. Not much, really.

John wanted this child, or these children if the second ever did come about, to understand that he, they, had been wanted. In spite of the strange affair resulting in his birth. That is, John reasoned, what every child wants to hear, what every parent should honestly be able to say to their child. Even if it was, “You were an accident, but we chose you just the same.”

Well, this baby was not at all an accident. There had been no torn condom here, though John guessed that the surprise had been even stronger. He remembered the shock, really. John tried to imagine what it would be like to hold the baby in his jumper-covered arms and look down on flesh and blood, bone of Sherlock’s bone and his through Harry’s. What would he say to welcome the baby? John was not good with spur of the moment. “Hey,” was entirely likely.

To that end, he was writing his thoughts. “Here is what you looked like at 14 weeks”, and “Here is a picture of your father, your _pere_ , reading your medical report before you were born.”

John wondered if he should have Sherlock translate the book into French, as it was currently much beyond the doctor. The deerstalker hat picture was included, as were a number of newspaper reports on the entire Reichenbach mess. John had chosen to put all of those, including the return and vindication of Sherlock Holmes, in a separate sealed envelope in the back. It was information the child would need eventually.

Sonograms, John had obtained copies of every one. They were placed to show the growth of the baby, and the blond doctor looked at each one growing to be a person. What would he be like, Siger Hamish Holmes?

What else could he share? John would need to explain to Siger eventually about the relationship between himself and “ _pere_ ”. Running a hand through sand-coloured hair, getting shaggy now, John said it out loud, “Your _pere_ ”, but it didn’t sound any less pretentious coming out of his mouth. Somehow when Sherlock said those words it sounded natural, and even more importantly, excited. Sherlock was still going strong in his joy over John’s decision. If there had been any doubt in John’s mind that Sherlock was not a sociopath, it would have been dispelled by the past few months.

As for their relationship, what exactly was there to say? How would John explain to the baby that Sherlock’s apparent suicide had nearly destroyed him? Well, obviously he wouldn’t tell the baby that. But questions would be asked eventually. Would the child ask, and more importantly, would John speak about his decision not to put his service piece in his mouth and put an end to the pain? Moriarty had done it, John knew now. To spite Sherlock. What John had known then was that killing himself meant Moriarty had won. Moriarty could not be allowed to destroy any more than was already gone. John believed in Sherlock. Nothing had changed that, not Sherlock’s death, not Moriarty’s lies.

John hadn’t said that to Elle. John hadn’t seen Elle in months, and he wondered if she’d bring up what Sarah had so long ago. What were John’s feelings toward his flatmate that he’d been so crushed by the incident at Saint Bart’s?

John gave a grunt of disgust. “Incident at Saint Bart’s” was such a lame attempt at distancing himself from watching Sherlock die. Taking a deep breath he took a look at the work in front of him and thought about what to do next.

Pictures. Neither of them were much for snapshots, and John tended to loathe the press shots. There were the photographs from The Initiative, of course. John had printed them out somewhere. Digging through the stack of papers resting on the desk he finally unearthed them. Two men on a couch in a darkened room. The light of the screen obvious and clarifying their features. John fast asleep with his head on his flatmate’s shoulder. Possibly drooling. Sherlock Holmes allowing body fluids on his dressing gown, what were the odds? 

The rest showed John’s head in Sherlock’s lap. Well, on his thigh. First the photographer had caught Sherlock with a look of consternation, and John with his face smushed down onto his friend’s thigh. Next was Sherlock looking into the camera, asking a question of the viewer, John resituated to a comfortable position. After that was a shot of Sherlock looking down, just his face. John liked that one, the smile, the fondness in the expression. Sentiment. Last showed the mad genius, eyes on the screen and head propped in a familiar pose on his right arm, but his left hand sliding through John’s hair, gently petting. That was a comfortable picture, and one of the favorites among the women at the Initiative.

John’s face in the photograph was relaxed, lines not evident. Was that because of the depth of his sleep? John had wondered why he’d not woken up in a nightmare, what with the sound and action blaring from the last film. Had Sherlock gentled him through his dreams? His friend, his flatmate, who never touched anyone if he could help it. No one living, anyway. Corpses were another story, though John was certain that Sherlock was not a necrophile. Sergeant Donovan was wrong. She saw, but did not observe, John thought as he smiled to himself. It was the puzzle, not the power, and most certainly not a sexual release. Not getting “off on it” in the way that Donovan meant.

It would not have been the first time, helping with the nightmares. John had done it for Sherlock as well. There were things that Sherlock had not told anyone about his time “being dead” as Sherlock called it. Events that had taken root in Sherlock’s dreams affected him as strongly as the war and the pool and Saint Bart’s had laid claim to John’s. Trauma did not only occur in wartime, and it compounded. Sherlock had been gone for three years. How much trauma had he built up while he was away?

Well, no need to be maudlin. John spread the pictures out and looked at them in sequence. Anyone taking them completely out of context of their life would be certain this was a couple. Married, or at least time spent comfortably long in a physical relationship. John would have thought it so if he didn’t know it was them. Sherlock with his fingers in John’s hair. John thought of his dreams of being comforted that way. What had Sherlock told him on the drive home? It was, “You are the only person I am comfortable touching and being touched by”. Something like that.

Struggle as he might, John could not help it. Sex: “Three Continents Watson” was thinking about it. The doctor had no doubt in his mind that Sherlock Holmes was not a virgin, no matter what Moriarty had insinuated. If Sherlock was uncomfortable being touched, how had he managed sex? Was it during his days as a user?

As he was wondering, Sherlock waltzed in the door, tossing the black coat and scarf at the spot by the door and, as always, having it catch on the wall hooks. John’s eyes flickered over his flatmate. Tall, fit, those cheekbones, that hair. No, Sherlock Holmes would have no trouble picking up a sexual partner, male or female. 

“Really, John,” Sherlock scoffed, “are you still thinking about that?”

“About what?” John hoisted himself out of the chair and went to heat the water for tea. 

“About sex,” Sherlock followed him into the kitchen. “I know you think about it more with regard to yourself than I do. But you seem to be fascinated by my state since Irene told us about Moriarty’s ridiculous nicknames.”

“Curiosity, Sherlock, your own besetting sin. I apologize for allowing my brain to wonder about your sexual experience.” John concentrated on setting up the mugs. “I just handle my wondering differently from you. You’d just ask, and I don’t. It’s rude. Can we not talk about it anymore?”

Sherlock snorted. “For us to not talk about it anymore, we’d have to talk about it at first.”

John stopped, took a deep breath, and turned to lean on the counter edge - arms crossed, he was aware, very defensively. “Sherlock? The first time we ate at Angelo’s you thought my questions about your relationships, who you might be bringing back to the flat, people I might be meeting and have to be around because you were dating, were me trying to pull you. Perfectly normal things for two people who will be flatmates to want to know about each other. You don’t… I don’t ask you questions about it because I don’t want you to misunderstand or think I’m on the make.”

“You don’t go out and try to pick up women anymore. Not since we moved back in together. Any of the female doctors at the Initiative would have engaged in sex with you, the security guards as well. Dry spell? Or deliberate decision?” Sherlock did not so much ask as commented as he looked through the mail on the table.

John stared at the tall madman. “I am not sure what you’re asking, really. Not sure I want to know either. So. Are you a virgin?”

Sherlock leaned against the kitchen door frame. “No.” That stood for a moment, then rushed out: “Honestly, John? Do you think I would ignore one of the most potent motivators in crime? Of course I’m not a virgin. For all that that means.”

John was watching his face. “You experimented. You went out and conducted tests, did you?”

His flatmate straightened. “Ten of each. My partners. Not all at once, of course. Though there were some multiples in there. And before you can ask, none at all when I was using.”

“Were you protected?” That was asked with some concern.

“John,” the tone was exasperated, for all that Sherlock’s eyes were fixed on John’s face, “of course I was. How else was I to take accurate measurements? My partners had been tested as well, to prevent the complications of STIs as well as pregnancy. It stood me in good stead for when I took the case with the sperm bank.”

There was a blink. John started to laugh. “You measured output. Of course you did.”

“Output, size before, during and after arousal of various body parts, length of orgasm, fertility, motility, reactions. Of course my partners were not aware. It made for some difficulty in ensuring accuracy. One can hardly stop in the middle of the act and take notes. Your face is turning red, John, are you alright?” Those pale eyes had not shifted.

John’s laughter grew until it escaped, and then he was bent over, a hand to his stomach. Gasping, the shorter, blond-haired man worked to contain himself. Looking up at his flatmate in the doorway, eyes flickering up and down the long, lanky body, he whooped and started to laugh again.

Sherlock stepped around the hysterical flatmate to manage the tea. After it had steeped, and John had calmed down somewhat, the tall dark man nudged the shorter man with sand-coloured hair, and took the mugs of tea into the sitting room.

John followed, still chuckling, in that sighing stage one reaches after laughing until the tears come. John sat down, took hold of his mug of tea, and sipped at the hot milky brew. He looked up to where Sherlock sat on the sofa, upright, eyes still on John’s face, though the long fingers of his hands were wrapped around his mug of excessively sweet tea.

When John replied, his voice was weak with the effort. “Ten of each, so that’s twenty partners. I can’t say anything about it because I have no idea how many. Lost track, and don’t really feel the need to keep score anymore. Of course, half of yours were men, and all of mine were women. I guess my question is, did you like it? Any of it?”

It was answered with a question: “Do you?”

“Yeah, of course. Wouldn’t do it otherwise, now would I?” John cocked his head, thinking about Sherlock Holmes in bed with two women. It wasn’t that the thought made him uncomfortable, but it did make the doctor feel a bit warm.

Sherlock’s eyes broke from John’s down to the mug of dark tea. “It was pleasurable. Some aspects were more to my taste than others.”

John gave his own snort, then took a mouthful of tea. “I can just bet. You like making people do things. How did you get past the touching?”

“I,” Sherlock paused. “It was a disguise. I was in a part, a character. It wouldn’t do to have a lover notice that your skin is crawling when she puts her hand on you. I waited. Until they were gone and washed thoroughly until I was myself again.”

“Do you see any of them now?” John’s curiosity took him beyond politeness and common sense. There was also a bit of wishful thinking that none of them showed up here. John wouldn’t know how to react to someone who had been involved so intimately with…and he stopped himself. When had Sherlock become his property? That was wrong.

“No point, John. I do not wish to engage in further sexual activity with any of them,” and the emphasis on the last word was heavy as stone.

“Oh.” John felt as though his mind was slower than before and the room had gotten oddly warmer. Still, even John could not miss that. Sherlock had thrown him a deliberate pitch. John ticked off Irene, or possibly Molly in his head. Clearing his throat, the doctor asked, “Not them? Your former partners? Someone else then?”

Sherlock sat up suddenly. John was used to jerky motions, used to Sherlock preparing himself to present him with information, to examine it in John’s illumination. Knees to his chin, arms around the legs, and that chin rested on the knees, his flatmate kept steady eyes on John’s familiar face. 

“You are the only human being that I can stand to touch me, John. With you it might be different, sex could be bearable.” Sherlock expected to have to make his statement again, though he had tried to make himself as clear as possible.

Well, that was not what the doctor had been expecting. John was...unsurprised. Or perhaps he was so shocked that he was not reacting. “Well,” swallowing hard to clear his throat, “there’s the problem right there. Sex should not be just...bearable.” That was more than a bit not good. John felt a jolt of sorrow for the man.

Sherlock waved that away with a quick, longer-fingered hand before returning it to his knee. “You have experience, John, a lot of it. It is transferable. You tend to be a pleaser, more enjoyable than someone looking for a quick orgasm or sex for power’s sake, those with little or no care for a partner’s release. We have a connection, one that encourages me to…” it was a stutter, “wish for your involvement in this fashion, this area, which as you have been told is not mine. Not one I am good at. I’m not speaking of the sex. I am relatively good at the act. It is the other aspects of becoming involved in a sexual relationship that I am, as Lestrade puts it, ‘pants at’.”

John surveyed the thin, dark-haired, childlike man perched on the couch across from his chair. This was, the doctor was aware, where he should remind his flatmate that John Hamish Watson was not gay. That he was looking for emphatically a female, and not a one-night stand. Instead, John found himself with noticeably few questions: “Why are you asking? Why are you, Sherlock Holmes, interested in having sex with me?”

His friend looked sharp and suddenly away. “Because of my…” A deep breath and then those pale eyes flicked back to John’s deeper blue. “It is a matter of sentiment.”

A quiet whoosh of air. The corner of John’s mouth quirked up. “Yes.”

Silence. Then, “Yes?” Confusion brought the tenor of Sherlock’s voice up an octave. John’s assent was unexpected. The man who had tried to convince his flawed transport it was not interested physically in the one human being to break through his barriers gawped.

John nodded, watching his friend’s astonished face for a moment before adding, “I have a caveat.”

“Of course you do.” Sherlock’s deep voice had regained itself, amusement returned.

A slight smile. “Your task, Sherlock. You take the lead in your own time. I can’t push you into something I am not sure you want.”

“You force me to eat and sleep, John,” exaggerated patience, “You drag me to the A & E at the most inconvenient times.”

“Sherlock.” John caught his gaze, those pale eyes, and held it. “If you want to have sex with me, I am willing. You will initiate it, and take the lead. Yeah? And if it doesn’t work for us, for either of us, then we drop it.”

Sherlock did not break the gaze, but he nodded. “Agreed.”

A shiver rolled through the doctor’s stocky frame. Pulling his eyes away, he asked offhandedly, “Tea?”, apparently forgetting the mugs sitting by each. 

“Yes.” Sherlock was still watching as John took to the kitchen to enact the familiar rite. When the fresh mugs were ready, John found his flatmate immersed in his own laptop, scrolling through lines of text. The tea was accepted absentmindedly, and John sat down in his own chair to pick up _Treasure Island_ , opening it to the marked place where Young Jim Hawkins was hiding in an apple barrel.


	29. Shopping

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock wants to purchase baby furniture the easy way. The internet. John just does not feel the joy of looking at a picture and deciding.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to LunaMoth116 for beta-ing!

Shopping. John dragged Greg Lestrade with him to look at furniture. Sherlock had stated that any and all items for the baby could be purchased using the Internet. John felt unease crawling up his spine at the thought. Buying a sofa online was bad enough. John knew what a sofa was, what he liked, and had his own ideas for pattern, or lack thereof. A picture on a website was not the same as sitting on a sofa and field testing it, so to speak. That was just for a sofa, something familiar.

What would a baby need? Find comfortable? What had they forgotten? Baby books were a good start, and John had written out a list. It was rather a long list, and much of it Mrs. Hudson had crossed off: “You don’t need that, John. Or that. Or… Perhaps I should just go through the list?”

To give the short, blond-haired man the strength of masculine companionship, John had asked - not begged, mind you - Greg to go with him. Then to fortify the both of them, they’d stopped by a pub for a pint beforehand. The pub was conveniently located catty-corner to the pricey shops catering to the young and trendy. It was comfortably masculine, with a heavily sporting theme. Not a long-established business, more like a franchise. That was fine, as John certainly was not looking for ambiance so much as a long pull of lager.

Not a lot of alcohol, mind you. John was not eager to rethink his words to Sherlock about engaging in…about sex. Not that the overly-tall, skinny git had taken John up on it. Nothing in his flatmate’s behavior had changed so far as John could see. John, meanwhile, kept having to shove the thought of it out of his mind. It was not as though the doctor hadn’t noticed how attractive Sherlock was before. Obviously, he’d remarked on the cheekbones, the hair. Now John found himself noticing the lips. Slightly chapped, a ridiculous cupid’s-bow of a mouth, and John had caught himself wondering what it would be like to feel those lips against his own. What it would be like to kiss his friend. To have that mouth against his skin. Which was just, well, not repugnant, but still slightly disturbing. As in, it disordered his world, disturbed it. John was uncertain.

Why had John said yes? Sherlock Holmes had admitted to having feelings for John. John knew he had an emotional attachment to the tall detective. John Watson was intelligent enough to understand that his flatmate would never tell anyone “I love you.” They’d discussed it with regard to the baby. So, Sherlock’s admittance that he wanted to have sex with John for sentiment’s sake, for emotional reasons, had shoved the older man abruptly into acquiescence. 

John, of all things, did not want to overindulge in anything now that would lower his inhibitions. When that happened, John got chatty. Getting chatty meant he’d “out” himself to Greg. Dr. John Watson very much did not think the Detective Inspector would understand. Lestrade might misunderstand in fact, much as Sherlock had that first night at Angelo’s. Thinking about it, Greg was straight, and Greg didn’t attract John. Looking about at the men in the street around them, what he’d told Harry still held true. Men did not do anything for John Watson in the least. But he’d agreed to… John didn’t understand his decision to begin with. The response had felt right at the time. No, he would keep the reins firmly in hand on alcohol consumption.

Even so, the pint invited another along before the pair, snickering at the chichi window display, managed to push through the doors of the shop specializing in children’s furniture. Bright varnished wood contrasted with white and cheerful bedding. Small plastic seats in stylish jewel tones matched the clothing of many of the younger women shoppers. John and Greg, two older men wearing comfortable jumpers on their afternoon off, looked out of place if not completely suspicious.

There was a movement to take it all in, the preciousness of the decorations, cartoon rockets, race cars, animals, before a bright-faced young woman gave them both a blinding smile and asked, “May I help you?”

She was attractive, slender, dressed well, and both John and Greg gave her an appreciative once-over. The doctor took a moment before he came back to social niceties. “Oh! Yeah! Well, I’m looking at baby furniture for my flat. We’re adopting and I really have no idea what will be needed.”

John saw his chances of chatting up the pretty girl had vanished in an instant as she, of course, assumed that John and Greg were “together”. “No! No, we’re” - that square hand waved back and forth from the DI to himself - “we’re not dating. He’s just a friend helping me look about for furniture!”

Regardless of what his flatmate might or might not do or offer or want, John was not wasting the opportunity. There was no way to save this situation, except with a lie, and “A tragic accident has left me to care for my young nephew. I’m a bachelor. Single. Heterosexual. Available NOW and may I have your number?” was definitely not going to work, was it? A much younger John Watson might have attempted it, back before the military service.

Lestrade did not help by looking amused, the bastard. John’s mobile went off. Sherlock. Of course. Greg could only hear one side of the conversation. “Hello? Yes. An hour ago. No. Looking at baby furniture. No, I want to look at actual physical furniture, not a picture on an ad. No, we just got here. Yes. Yes. Yes. Greg. Yes, Lestrade.” Here John heard his grey haired companion snort. “What? No! No, you don’t need to.” Greg was chuckling now, which expanded into a laugh as John reluctantly gave the store’s name and street. “Bugger!”

John looked about for the sales clerk, who was now on the other side of the store smiling blindingly at a middle-aged woman who looked astonishingly like a poodle, and showing a rack of quilted bags in startling patchwork. “She said she’d be back when we were ready,” Greg supplied, all amused and surprisingly comfortable; they were the only men in the store. “Sherlock joining us?” It was asked as though that were an enormously entertaining joke.

“Yeah,” John growled. “You’ve never been shopping with him. Have you?”

“Worse than the pub, I take it?” Greg was grinning widely at him, and John gritted his teeth.

“Could well be,” the shorter man ground out.

“Well, what did you think might be needed? We can get as much done as possible before he arrives.” Greg Lestrade knew when it was time to redirect.

“Cot, we’d like to get one that turns into a bed for later. Changing table. Sherlock already bought a dresser. A rocking chair. I have no idea where we’ll put that. I suppose a hamper for diapers. Sherlock is insisting on a service. No idea why, as he’s not ‘green’ at all.” John was reading off lines from the list in his moleskin.

“Better for the baby, John, if done right. Easier to train out of. Or so they say,” that baritone came from over their shoulders.

“Didn’t take you long,” observed Lestrade.

“Yes, well...” That long neck whipped around to survey the shop’s offerings, dark waves of hair almost tumbling into pale eyes. “I was around the corner looking into clothing for Siger.”

“What?” When he realized they were staring at him, Sherlock pointed out, “He will need something other than cutesy items. You know Mrs. Hudson and your sister Harry will purchase frightening things for him. Honestly, John, we don’t want him to be dressed like you. Jumpers and checks again?”

The shorter man ruffled up. “Sherlock,” he began darkly.

“Come, John! Lestrade! I believe the cots are over here,” and the black-coated consulting detective darted off, leading them on a merry chase throughout the store.

Merry, perhaps, was not the word. Erratic, at least so far as Greg Lestrade could see. Sherlock Holmes surveyed a piece of furniture and rattled details much as he could do with people. “Yeah,” John muttered to the DI, “he’s done his homework.”

The dark-haired consulting detective, very obviously hearing the words, smirked, but did not stop in his rapid commentary. Head spinning, the blond-haired doctor held up a hand requesting a pause: “Sherlock, that was too, too much information. What do I actually need to know about this cot?”

A sniff. “Tiny little brains,” then, “Of the cots available here, and in most shops in London, that one over there is superior in construction and eventual use as a child’s bed. Even if it is a horror in overenthusiastic decoration. If we purchase it now we will get a discount, delivery, and it will still cost less than ordering it online.”

“You don’t care for chicks and ducklings, Sherlock?” Lestrade found the idea of either of the Holmes brothers surrounded by infant farm animals highly amusing.

“Preferable to other possible embellishments.” The highly disapproving frown was directed toward a garish display of cavorting clowns.

John’s uneasy glance at the clowns was priceless. Greg Lestrade was admitting to himself that this shopping trip had some merit as entertainment when the pretty little brunette from before reappeared. “Hello. Are you ready? Do you have any questions?”

Those pale eyes narrowed as she was examined from hairstyle to shoes. “You’ll do,” was the drawled mutter of that deep voice. The incandescent smile that lit the man’s pale face enthralled the salesgirl. Her answering smile, step forward, and tilt of her body toward the tall, dark, attractive man all spoke of an interest that had been absent in her previous interaction with John and Greg.

Greg noticed these things, knowing how quickly that charm could change. The silver-haired detective inspector heard John Watson’s small sigh of annoyance, whether at the widely differing reaction from the girl to his tall flatmate as opposed to the short blond, or in frustration over Sherlock’s patently, to all who knew him, false smile at the woman. Sherlock wouldn’t let John date the woman anyway, Greg thought. Also, Lestrade saw a tiny reaction to that sigh, as the smile became broader, more real. Yeah. Right. Sherlock Holmes had no interest in John Watson as more than a friend. Greg snickered.

The whirlwind that was Sherlock Holmes swept the sales clerk into its circle and an order was placed for the superior cot - “undecorated of course, John” - a changing table from an entirely unrelated set of furniture that Sherlock informed them was unlikely to topple if knocked into by an assassin, and bedding that was free of cartoon anything, but matched Sherlock’s own bedroom’s color scheme.

A mechanical contrivance for bundling and containing disposable nappies was considered, then rejected in favor of, “there’s a better one available online.”

“Sherlock,” John asked helplessly, “why would we need that if we’re using cloth diapers?”

“Travel, John. Flexibility, as you yourself pointed out, is necessary at times. It is possible to do both.” A credit card was offered to the cashier. Greg leaned forward, unable to stop himself from scanning the name on the card. “Expecting Mycroft’s?” was Sherlock’s dry response. “Honestly, Lestrade, John and I do have bank accounts.”

“How many of my warrant cards are in your pocket right now?” Lestrade raised an eyebrow.

John began to laugh as Sherlock’s face blanked. “How many?” was repeated by the Detective Inspector, but both eyebrows went up.

“Only one.” It was not so much an admittance as a sulk. What followed was an admission as the man scowled at his flatmate. “All the rest are back in your desk. Well, except for the one in John’s wallet.”

John’s laughter cut off. Greg Lestrade’s began.

...

Mycroft Holmes examined the photographs on the elegant, polished surface of his desk. The subject’s face was swollen, red and uneven with a particularly nasty case of hives. Mycroft could empathise, but his responses to that empathy were extremely controlled. This made him incredibly effective when interrogations were necessary, or when information was to be obtained in polite conversation. The “Ice Man” might be a highly appropriate nickname, in spite of its source, but not for one moment was Mycroft unable to glean emotions in others due to his own coldness. He could then use those responses to terrifying advantage.

The woman, a highly successful neonatal surgeon, had been one of the team for the Initiative. No longer, as Sherlock had presented her as the most logical choice for Culverton Smith’s mole. Apparently she had irritated her superior, the auburn-haired government official surmised. Mycroft’s men, arriving after the surgeon received an unfortunate delivery, had taken the suffering woman to a hospital of Mycroft’s selection. Attacking Sherlock and John at the Initiative had been heavy-handed in the extreme, and the “minor government official” felt certain that Culverton Smith was notifying his minion of that fact. Now the perpetrator was in custody, and Mycroft had managed to use her insecurities, his agents frightening her to the point that she demanded protection. Fear of Culverton Smith was useful. Terror that the false doctor would permanently damage the woman’s - to her own mind - great beauty had brought her strongly into their camp. No loyalty there.

She should be grateful, Mycroft ruminated. If Moriarty had still been alive, a marred face would have been the least of her worries. That Mycroft Holmes was not truly a man of ice was clear from his relief at the thought of James Moriarty dead by his own hand at the top of Saint Bart’s those long years ago.

Meanwhile, his office was tracking a series of poisonings, suspicious infections, and allergic reactions across the nation. “Dr.” Smith was deliberately attracting attention. Eventually Mycroft would bring his little brother in to do the legwork, or possibly the bait, but for now fitting the pieces of the puzzle together was the task of the elder brother. 

Later tonight he would see Greg in person. A smile, tiny but present and real, marred the familiar facade he had unconsciously set into place. His computer screen showed the Detective Inspector laughing at Mycroft’s baby brother’s antics. John Watson’s face looked remarkably sour. It would be enjoyable to hear Greg’s retelling of his adventure. Later, though. Anticipation was good, but satisfaction after an amount of denial was infinitely better.

...

There was a shoddy, down-at-heels surgery which had surprisingly few clientele, even among the bottom rung of society. It was located out of the way on a back alley. The nurse and receptionist were unpleasant, the doctor smelt strongly of booze, and rumor had it he had killed off all of his patients. Still had his medical license though, framed and hanging crookedly on a nail in the wall. Dr. John Smythe had graduated as a medical doctor from an obscure college in Liverpool.

Dr. Culverton Smith leaned back in the squeaking chair he felt was necessary to present the proper picture. His mouth still stung from the rinse of very bad scotch he’d spat into the bowl in his water closet. His lank, dark hair was combed over the top of his head to effectively mask the male pattern baldness. It was the style he’d used at the Initiative, but if need be he’d shave it all off. No one would think to look for him as a bald man. Braces on his once discolored, snaggled teeth had forced them into alignment, and his smile would no longer make others look away. Money was a most excellent thing to have, and in spite of his current surroundings, Dr. Culverton Smith - formerly a graduate in veterinary science, now a “medical doctor” - was enjoying the use of it.

An unfolded map covered the battered steel desk top like a tablecloth; red, orange, and yellow dots marked events scattered across Greater London. Fairly soon, the doctor speculated, Sherlock Holmes would find him. 

When that happened, the doctor - he always thought of himself as a doctor in spite of those fools at the college - would ensure the irritating man was removed from the game. Mycroft Holmes, Smith was certain, would not pursue him into other lands. Sherlock Holmes, though, from what he’d heard from Sebastian Moran before Holmes had shot him, was tenacious. He’d track Smith down just for the fun of it. That could not be allowed.

There was money enough, hidden in places the British Government could not access it. A comfortable, respectable life, certainly, but not the wickedly indulgent one he’d planned for after the Initiative wrapped up. Better that than prison. Culverton Smith was a realist. He’d cut the losses. He’d have allowed Sherlock Holmes to live if he thought the man would leave him the bloody hell alone. That was not going to happen, and so the fool must be lured into pitting his wits against one of Moriarty’s best and brightest. An arrogant man, the type to refuse to look at the facts with regard to his own health. It was all in his file. The unattractive, older, admitted criminal knew how Moriarty would have played it. Holmes would succumb to his curiosity and then he’d die horribly. 

Now, there were two times when Holmes’s personal pet doctor would be away. Which would be the most effective for his purposes? Sooner rather than later, and there was time to accomplish it within the time frame. No need to destroy the good doctor. Once his friend was out of the way, Dr. John Watson, blogger to the Great Consulting Detective, would disappear back into obscurity. After providing Culverton Smith with what he required.

...

Sherlock Holmes had prevailed upon John Watson to wash all of the baby clothes. They’d been delivered by the shops, and Mrs. Hudson had signed for them. Granted, it was with a chorus of, “I’m your landlady. Not your housekeeper, Sherlock!”

Now, neatly refolded (by Sherlock) after their initial haphazard stacking out of the dryer (by John), the consulting detective was organizing them into the small dresser he had purchased for the purpose of holding the baby’s clothing. The dresser perfectly matched his bedroom suite. The sock index had been adapted for body suits and diaper covers. It only now occurred to Sherlock that the baby’s outfits might not coordinate well with his own. Still time to ensure that they would not clash. 

Sherlock, in spite of the opinions of others, had an enormous capacity for imagination. It did allow him to understand the odd motivations of ordinary people most of the time, as well as to ascertain where they might have hidden objects or committed crimes. He chose to distance himself, rather than clasp emotions and empathy to his breast. Admittedly, John gave him much-needed balance in his understanding of the swirl of emotions that polluted the world around them.

Sounds came from the kitchen. His flatmate was preparing a risotto for supper, and had declared that Sherlock would eat it. He’d just come back from removing the onesies out of Mrs. Hudson’s dryer, and brought them back “folded”. 

Sherlock swallowed hard. John had said yes. With that ridiculous caveat. This put the genius in the rather difficult position of seducing his flatmate. Seducing John Watson was his newly assigned task. In spite of experience and his experiments with sexuality, Sherlock Holmes had never particularly wanted to bring someone to his bed before. He had knowledge, but no understanding of the process.

The others - which, Sherlock admitted, was a relatively small, but carefully selected sampling - had been perfectly willing to respond to an outright, albeit pleasantly worded, request for sex. Having watched John attempt to pick up women, Sherlock rather thought it would be a much different path he would need to follow to pick up John. John was not just interested in copulation. The act might be very nice and all, but if all his flatmate wanted was a quick bang, he’d have had much better luck going out to a club or other venue where simple gratification was to be found. John wanted a lover. A relationship.

They already had a relationship, Sherlock reminded himself. This was just taking that relationship to a further level. Mature adults could determine whether or not they were sexually compatible without destroying friendship. 

The opportunity would present itself. The time would be right. Sherlock would know it when that time arrived. For now, there were baby clothes to index.


	30. Infectious Spirits

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Culverton Smith makes his move.

The last inspection of the Initiative, scheduled to take over a week this time due to meetings with the other ‘medical experts’ from Mycroft’s committee, went slowly without Sherlock. Actually, it went tediously, grindingly, boringly slowly without his observations and company. Sherlock’s mere presence was addictive, apparently, and John found himself wishing - more than once - that he were at home in 221B assisting with whatever trail the detective was following. Interviews were fine; it was dealing with sixty women whose hormones zipped back and forth from nesting to sexually frustrated to tearful all within the span of sixty seconds that was wearing. Although, come to think of it, living with Sherlock had prepared him for that as well. The thought of sixty Sherlocks in a single space made John laugh out loud at a highly inappropriate moment. 

John took the rail back to London, not being a driver and all, and not wishing to rely on Mycroft’s generosity. Which was foolish, John admitted to himself on the way home. It wasn’t generosity. This whole series of inspections was for the government, and they were actually paying for his train ticket. The other members of the Committee had been driven. Why shouldn’t John have accepted, let alone asked for a ride from those overseeing the entire program? Sherlock was correct, John admitted to himself. He was an idiot.

It was an overly long return trip, boring - John had long since finished the books he’d taken along for diversion - and when the taxi pulled up to Baker Street the doctor was more than ready to be home. Except that he was not home; John was some distance away. Baker Street was in the midst of repair and the end of the street was blocked off. The cabbie pulled up to the obstruction and let John out. Wheeling his bag behind him, the short blond man was thankful to be fit enough after all these years. After all, he ran after Sherlock often enough. Thinking of his flatmate, John was also thankful that his limp no longer presented a problem.

John went to find his key and realized that it must be packed in a jacket pocket inside the bag. Well, then, best hope that Mrs. Hudson was home. If Sherlock had been done with his case, he’d have appeared at the Initiative. Even if he was home, Sherlock wouldn’t answer the door, so it would have to be Mrs. Hudson. John leaned on the bell, trying not to let his irritation bleed through. No response. Looking around while he waited, John saw, no, observed so many things. Across the street was the rebuilt house destroyed by Moriarty with explosives long ago. A window above had sheltered Colonel Sebastian Moran while he waited to assassinate Sherlock with a sniper rifle. The symbols painted by the Black Lotus were long gone, removed by whomever took care of graffiti. So were Moriarty’s ICUs. Mr. Chatterjee could be heard inside Speedy’s shouting at the counter help.

Where should he go? The tired doctor just wanted his chair, his tea, and trash telly. Not in that order, of course. Tea. Then Chair. Then Telly. Those did not appear to be in the cards right now, however. Speedy’s was not a comfortable location to wait. Perhaps he could hang out at the pub, have a pint, and watch whatever match was showing. John pressed the bell and did a touch of Morse code, enough that Sherlock, if he was home, would understand it was not a client. Footsteps, tapping heels he could hear through the solid door. Finally, “Mrs. Hudson, I’m so sorry. I must have packed my keys in the suitcase.” John stopped.

It was not Mrs. Hudson, the young woman at the door. Familiar and yet unfamiliar in tight jeans, a hoodie, and stiletto heels. Dark skin, tight curls - those were recognizable, but the polite tone in which she asked, “May I help you?” was not what John was used to from Detective Sergeant Sally Donovan. 

“I -” John hesitated as a wave of displacement washed over him “- live here?” His response was a question.

A smile. That mischievous look was out of place on Sally’s face. Actually, she looked quite pretty without that aura of discontent. The head of curls turned and the detective sergeant shouted over her shoulder. “Aunt Martha? Did you order a hamper from Harrods?” Turning back to face John she said quickly and loudly, “Bring it through here,” and dragged John Watson into the building, down the hallway, and pushing the door to Mrs. Hudson’s flat open, shoved him through into what had been his landlady’s flat.

Moving in behind him, Sally closed the door, and John, flanked on either side by much taller, dangerous looking members of the police force, looked for an expected face. Gregory Lestrade, Detective Inspector of New Scotland Yard, appeared through the kitchen doorway and motioned for John to follow him. Not a word from anyone else, and not a head had turned from where men and women sat around a table, wearing headsets. John was aware of Sally disappearing back through the door, and that she was chattering to one of the dangerous men as she led him out to the front door. It opened and closed behind the man now playing “delivery man from Harrods”, and John stepped after Greg.

Lestrade pulled his shorter friend further into Mrs. Hudson’s cheerful kitchen, a warm hand on John’s shoulder. Men tend not to stand so close to each other, but John was used to Sherlock’s lack of adherence to societal customs. Too, the doctor, as was warranted by his profession, certainly got within the personal space of patients every day. “Alright,” he started the exchange without waiting for the detective inspector, though he did keep his voice low, “what the hell is going on?”

“Culverton Smith,” came Lestrade’s quiet voice, not a whisper. “We have your flat bugged.”

Sally stepped past them, turned on the tiny telly that Mrs. Hudson kept in her kitchen, seeking out a talk show. Then she left the room with a wink at John Watson. “What is Smith doing to Sherlock?” demanded John, his tense voice resolutely matching the Detective Inspector’s, tiredness driven from his body by adrenaline. 

Lestrade replaced that calming hand on the shorter man’s shoulder. “Nothing so far. Smith thinks Sherlock’s caught some bloody tropical disease. Tapanuli fever.” That was said absently. “He does have a gun. Smith, not Sherlock.”

John was brought back to the present and looked Lestrade in the eye. “Sherlock does as well.”

“Lord in Heaven,” the police inspector groaned.

“Exactly,” the doctor muttered darkly.

A sigh John had heard before, deep and tired. “Do you want to hear?” A sweep of arm indicated the sitting room back down the hall, set up as a listening post.

John’s glare at the setup in its entirety would have melted steel. The “yes” was curt.

A policeman that John did not know had brought John’s bag through and stowed it under Mrs. Hudson’s familiar work table, lifting the long overhang from the tablecloth to reveal a number of boxes and cases that obviously did not belong to John’s landlady. A collapsible chair was silently brought for the doctor, a headset handed to him and John began to hear conversation.

Sherlock’s voice came in clearly over the electronics. That familiar baritone sounded off. Not weak, but breathy, with a hitch that John had heard from his flatmate when great pain was evident. The muscles of his left hand tightened, and the doctor fought the urge to bolt upstairs and sort the whole thing out himself.

“You know what those symptoms mean, don’t you?” That uneven tenor must be the infamous Dr. Culverton Smith. The words dripped with malicious satisfaction.

Silence. A moment of labored breathing was transmitted through the wires down to the police in the flat below. “Tapanuli fever.” It was a croak. Then a rustling.

“Ah-ah.” John could see a wagging finger in his mind’s eye. ”No need for this, I think,” and a clatter. Was it a mobile being thrown across the flat?

Sherlock watched the burner mobile fly from Smith’s spider-like hand to chip into pieces against the wall under the cow’s skull. The slight crack of plastic on wallpapered plaster was distinctive. He hoped the wire was catching every sound. The fever was interfering with his perceptions, but the detective had read Smith’s observation of the heat radiating from the man lying on the couch, sweated curls painted on a pale, clammy skin. That was good, that verisimilitude.

“Well, Holmes, now we understand that you’re not to try that again. No texting your friends at New Scotland Yard. No calling for ‘Big Brother’.” Smith had pulled a tube of antibacterial cleanser from his pocket and was cleaning his hands where they had touched the burner mobile.

“You stay away from me,” Sherlock gasped.

“No intention of coming anywhere near. Aside from the infection, you stink. This whole place reeks. Without your doctor to take care of you, you’re not much, are you?”

Downstairs, John gripped the table. Fear for his friend warred with indignation at the casual dismissal. The officer to his left flicked his eyes at the doctor and tensed. Did the man think John was going to jump up and interfere? Of course. They all did.

“You sent it?” Sherlock asked. “The carved ivory box?”

Smith scoffed. “You knew I sent it, Holmes. Which is why you handled it with gloves and a face mask, I am sure. Quarantine precautions.”

“How did you get past those precautions?” Sherlock Holmes was indeed interested in keeping the man talking. “The dust inside tested for Tapanuli fever. It was in the box and on it.”

“I see you take your tea with milk?” Smith looked pointedly at the mugs and cups of the beverage littering the room, where Sherlock lay on the couch. The obviously feverish man was huddled in a hideous, fluorescent orange blanket; a plastic wastebin by his side had noticeably been used to catch vomit. The stink of it was strong. Fever was eating the annoying detective from the inside out. Smith’s eyes roamed over the sharp cheekbones standing out in relief from the rest of his face, the fingers like bone that clutched at the fabric of the blanket.

“Yes,” came the reply. “I cannot offer you some. The milk has been used up.”

Culverton Smith’s smile grew like fungus on his unwholesome face, braces flashing in the light from the windows. “Busy boy, to have drunk all of it in only a few days. Ran out without your runt to fetch more?”

“John is not a ‘runt’.” It came out sulkier than Sherlock intended. “And he has more to do in life than fetch milk.”

Smith laughed. “Not according to his blog, he doesn’t. It’s all there, the constant trips to Tesco for milk. Not a large leap of logic to figure out where you use it all. Tea plays a huge part in your ‘oh-so-busy’ lives according to his writings.”

Sherlock Holmes closed his eyes, much as he wanted to keep them open and on the insane veterinarian. “It’s a comfort.”

“And an easy way to poison you. Since I knew the box would not work.” It was more than an admittance, it was boasting. “Of course you wouldn’t be expecting something normal like that. Not when you had that intricate and interesting puzzle box delivered directly to you.”

“The milk?” A groan, keep the man talking.

“Easy enough to put it within your reach after Dr. Watson left to meddle in my Initiative!” huffed the pseudo-doctor. “Sitting out on the counter waiting for you when you arrived. Filled with Tapanuli, and ready for you to drink.”

“Why?” croaked the detective, lying on the couch looking pathetic.

“Why?” Culverton Smith asked in overblown astonishment.

“Why go to this trouble? Why try to infect John and me at the Initiative, and now me here? Why set up the entire massive construct? To impregnate women with my seed? It makes no sense, even for one of Moriarty’s men.” Sherlock knew that Smith had not been behind the attempt at the Initiative, knew he’d take the opportunity to deny it. The more the man spoke, the greater the amount of information he would reveal.

Smith’s sneer made him all the more unattractive. “I have disciplined the one who was responsible for the incident at the Initiative. A surgeon, like your boyfriend. Or what your Dr. Watson used to be. Useless. What a waste of time and resources, and all because she was afraid you would find out about her insignificant part in the proceedings. 

“No, you’re an irritant, and I am preventing you from causing me any further irritation. You and your brother have destroyed an enormous opportunity for me. The wealth I would have received from those babies is incalculable. 

“Moriarty wanted to waste this opportunity on his ‘games’ with you. His puzzles. I am beginning to see why. Pleasant to think of you and your lover destroying yourselves over this. Assassins appearing out of nowhere, miniature versions of Sherlock Holmes. Tiny killers resembling Dr. John Watson. Fanatics, primed to do anything in their power to kill their progenitors. My boss had it all set up, from the conception to the training of each little assassin. 

“Moriarty couldn’t get the components from the good doctor, but he could use what Harriet Watson provided all those years ago. Do you think Watson could do that? Kill himself? Do you think your boyfriend could kill you?” Sherlock tensed, his behavior mirrored a floor below by John Watson. 

John had listened to the attacks on his competence, on his professional skills, and was taken aback. The vitriol was unexpected. He didn’t even know the man, and to receive that level of hatred was startling. Culverton Smith was going on, and John focused his attention on the man’s continued ravings. 

“How would that make your doctor feel to see another you trying to kill him, or better yet, kill you? Your lover’s child coming after you? How did Moriarty put it - ‘burning your heart out’? Moran certainly wanted us to do that. He gave the orders to maintain after the boss died. Kept watch on your top three, Mr. Holmes. Moran couldn’t reach your brother, but he could pick those others off one after another and Mycroft Holmes would know that he could do nothing to save them. Burning your heart out, and putting a stake through Mycroft Holmes’s heart was how Moran put it.

“What a waste. All of that money. Money I can still receive, at least in part, if I deliver on one of my promises. Not poison, no. Fever. Pain. Debilitation from which you will never recover. You will die, as will your partner in the passing of time. But one of you will be left without the other for a while, thinking of how he could have saved you.

“And the best part of it is that Dr. Watson will continue with the process, even without you. Caring for your child, even if he no longer has you. Did you settle on one of Harriet’s eggs for the adoption? That would be so very interesting, to see the amalgam of your partnership. Still worth money. Only Mycroft Holmes doesn’t watch over Dr. Watson so carefully as he does you, does he? Living here, no security worth mentioning. It won’t be long before that baby is in my custody, and - in exchange for a nice tidy sum, slightly larger than what has already been agreed upon - will become part of another influential family. One that will suddenly find itself paying a steady income after the fact to prevent any inconvenient information from surfacing in public.”

Down the stairs, in Mrs. Hudson’s flat, Detective Inspector Morton, a bulldog sort of man, put his head up and looked up at Lestrade from under his headset. He said, “That’s it. We’ve got what we need.”

Lestrade, his Detective Sergeant, and the remaining large and dangerous looking officer tore out of the room, followed closely by a short, blond, violent doctor. They arrived as Sherlock Holmes, pointing the no longer secret gun at Culverton Smith, said: “I think that’s quite enough from you, Mr. Smith.”

The former Moriarty employee had no time to fight back. The officers of the NSY disarmed him, bundled him up, informed the false doctor of his rights, and the tall one carried him off downstairs to a panda car that had pulled up to the no longer blocked door of 221B. Photographs of the flat after the operation were being taken in short order, and the technical officers from downstairs began to remove their surveillance equipment.

John Watson’s immediate care was for his flatmate. Sherlock’s face, gruesome, lit up. “John! You’re back!” Then came the deducing. “And very angry.” That was said slowly.

Deep breath. Sigh. “You look awful.” Not what Sherlock was expecting. John got a whiff as the detective drew close. “And smell foul. You don’t actually have diarrhea?”

The smile returned full and joyful in response. The detective bent down, picking up a scrap of cardboard from the floor by the couch leg. “Organic chemistry, John. I know you studied it. The waste-bin too! A uneven slurry of fruit, oxidizing to a nice brown, and a water-soluble chemistry compound painted round the rim for the smell.”

“So? Been a bit busy while I was away?” His short and solid flatmate looked around at the disaster that was their flat. There were mugs and cups filled or partially filled with tea, a skin of milk coating the surfaces, with some round spots of mold growing across the rims. John’s plastic waste-bin truly looked as though bits of sick were covering the bottom. The flat gave off a smell - not quite a stench - of human effluvia. An orange shock blanket was draped off the end of the sofa. It did, indeed, look as though his flatmate had been surviving in desperate need of urgent medical care.

John turned attention back to his flatmate. He’d assumed that Sherlock had been doing more of his phenomenal characterizations, but now that he was closer, the doctor could feel the heat radiating from his friend’s body, could see the glassy eyes, hear the heavy breathing. “What the hell have you done to yourself, Sherlock?” the shorter man demanded.

Sherlock’s knees chose that moment to buckle. “I may have contracted the flu. On purpose. To present the symptoms necessary to fool Culverton Smith.”

A curse from John, and then the doctor caught the tall idiot with no idea of common sense boundaries and dragged him off to clean him up and check him thoroughly. It took almost two hours to get the great git bathed, teeth and tongue brushed, dosed with paracetamol, hydrated at least somewhat with water before being granted a cup of tea, sweet, just as Sherlock liked it. The thin, ill consulting detective’s stomach gurgled with pleasure as the sweetened tea slipped across his tongue. John’s clean bed, upstairs and away from the draught caused by opening all of the windows in the downstairs of their flat to air it out, was warm and cozy, if somewhat too far away from any interesting activity. “No,” John told him after taking his temp again, “you’re going to stay here and get some rest while I clean the flat. If you’re lucky I won’t catch the flu from you, because I am a horrible patient. You will suffer from it if I do, I promise you, Sherlock!”

Lestrade was laughing at them both from the doorway to John’s room. “I’ve cleared out the sitting room. Dishes are washed and on the drainer, though I’ve no doubt you’ll want to disinfect again before using any of them.”

Sherlock groused, “It wasn’t Tapanuli fever in any of those, just a simple bit of a common mold. I turned the infected milk over to Lestrade as soon as I discovered it on the counter. And the ivory box. Even Anderson couldn’t botch the tests with that much incubating culture.”

“Right,” Lestrade smirked, “and you weren’t a bit tempted to keep any for yourself. Nor to make yourself just a bit sick for effect?”

“Are you insane, Lestrade? Why would I consider doing that dolt’s work for him?” Then, looking at the murderous expression on the man sitting on the edge of the bed with a thermometer in his hand: “Really, John. Influenza…” He was cut off.

“Influenza kills people, Sherlock. And you can’t afford to do anything so sloppy again. What if the strain you infected yourself with was strong enough to kill you quickly? The stakes are bigger now, Sherlock. It’s not just you and Mycroft. There’s Siger. And there’s me, for what that’s worth. Right?” That had started out as furious as the rage bucket that Dr. John Hamish Watson was could be, and ended on an almost plaintive note.

“John.” Sherlock probably thought he was being soothing. “I did include Lestrade this time, didn’t I? I am taking precautions.” The invalid, purple shadows under his eyes, looked over to the Detective Inspector for verification - or perhaps approval.

“Don’t drag me into this, you madman.” Greg Lestrade did not want John’s prodigious and truthfully frightening anger redirected toward him. “I thought you’d just put on makeup or something. Like when you disguised yourself as a woman for that other case.”

Sherlock muttered, it had to do with seeing and observing, and John got up from the bed. “I’ll walk you out, Greg. Sherlock? Stay. If you get some sleep now, we’ll watch a movie later on.”

When they’d gotten down to the hallway in front of Mrs. Hudson’s flat, John could see that the police had cleared everything away. “Where’s Mrs. Hudson, then?” he asked.

“Sherlock said something about sending her to her sister’s.” Greg shrugged. “I have written permission to use her flat, and to do surveillance upstairs in yours. Dotting the i’s and crossing the t’s. John, I had no idea he was contagious. Is this something… will my officers will be in danger of infection?”

“Shouldn’t be. They didn’t physically interact with Sherlock. Or his fluids. He says Culverton Smith was careful not to get within radius. You helped me get him to the bathroom and upstairs to my bedroom. Have you had your flu jab? Sherlock tells me the strain was one of those in this year’s shot.” John retrieved his luggage from under the tablecloth in Mrs. Hudson’s kitchen.

“I’ve had mine. Have you had yours?” Greg was obviously concerned.

“Yah,” John grinned. “Doctor. In a clinic. Got mine soon as we had them available.”

Pausing at the front door, Greg looked back. “He wanted to wait for you, you know. Said you’d be furious at him for going after Culverton Smith without you. It was obvious that Smith set this up to take advantage of your trip to the Initiative.”

“I am.” John took a deep breath and went on, “I am furious. I know. I’d probably have refused to go if I knew about it. I have to learn to trust him. He needs to learn to trust me. God help us both when Siger is born and comes home with us, Greg.”

Greg Lestrade looked down at the shorter blond man, his good friend, in front of him. “You’ll manage. You’ll rein him in. He’ll make things exciting. Would you have it any other way?”

John Watson looked up at the silver-haired Detective Inspector. “No. No, I wouldn’t.” And with a wave, John took his luggage up the stairs to begin restoring the flat to a habitable state.


	31. Sex

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The chapter heading makes it rather apparent...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all, thank you to my beta, Lunamoth116! She is all kinds of awesome!
> 
> Secondly, there is sex between John and Sherlock. If it bothers you, you might want to skip this and the next chapter. Possibly the one after that.

John looked over at the tall, thin, dark-haired man pretending to be completely absorbed in the screen of his mobile. The flu had been a mild strain, and Sherlock was completely over it. The flat smelled fresh, cleared out of any offensive odors left behind from the Culverton Smith visit over a week ago. Every mug they owned, as well as John’s waste-bin, had been disinfected and returned to its proper place. Tonight, takeaway had been eaten, tea imbibed, John had showered, and now they were sitting in the quiet flat. Sitting, and not talking. That was not out of the ordinary. Sherlock could go for days without speaking. This was different. And striking after a week of nonstop attention.

John had told Sherlock that he would wait for the detective to indicate further interest. The signs were there, but in such a juvenile way that the blond doctor had the sensation of being back in the sixth form. John was, of course, used to his friend watching him. That had risen to new heights of stalkerish behavior. Staring, then quickly looking away to pretend an interest in something pedestrian was simply not normal. Well, not normal for Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock always had a way of standing too close, but now John had taken to tripping over the man whenever he turned around. Over-brewed tea waiting for him at every possible juncture had been startling as well. It was, however, the figurative and literal poking that John disliked most. John missed his comfortable companionship with the taller, marvelously intelligent man - replaced, for the moment, by an incredible attention to the details of John’s words and movements and life. John felt he was being taken apart, dissected. The question was, did this occur because he’d told Sherlock yes? And would it continue in spades once they did consummate a sexual relationship?

No help for it. Folding the paper, he stood. Stepping around the back of his flatmate’s chair, the shorter man bent down. “Do you know what the largest and most important sexual organ in the human body is?” John made a point not to touch the seated man, just speaking quietly, using a tone deeper than his normal voice.

The dark head of wavy hair straightened. Mobile forgotten, a calculating look that John could see even from this side and this close took over. “Skin,” was the answer in a jaded tone, as though the question was beyond the detective.

“Wrong.” That never failed to pull in his flatmate’s attention, and it was needed at this moment. John had leaned over the back of the chair, presence difficult to ignore, his voice a stage whisper now into Sherlock’s ear. “It’s the brain.”

The brain. Not skin. Not genitalia or secondary sexual characteristics. The brain, collecting information from all senses and collating, making connections, understanding. Of course! John? 

John was gone. Sherlock heard the sound of footsteps on the stairs leading up to John’s room. Invitation extended, then. A poke to get him going. Could it be that simple? Sherlock could feel the memory of John’s hair against the palm of his hand. The urge to touch John Watson further drew him out of his chair.

John sat tailor-fashion on his bed, reading from his laptop. He was dressed for bed, in a faded blue tee shirt and black boxers. His mind was not on the words scrolling in front of him. He was listening, his door fully open, waiting for the familiar footsteps he could hear climbing the stair.

Sherlock leaned against the door frame, waiting for John to look up. The tall, dark man knew that John had been watching. He knew John had been listening. A quiet sigh, then eyes lifting to his from John’s very defensive posture on the bed. Sherlock gave his friend a small smile, an assuredly real smile, still leaning comfortably just inside the door, and beckoned for John to come to him. John was, after all, his chosen partner.

The smaller man swallowed visibly. Putting the laptop on the far bedside table, he slipped off the bed and walked up to within forty-six centimeters, an ordinary human being’s personal space. There was no flinching when Sherlock reached forward, sliding those long, refined fingers into his flatmate’s sand-coloured hair. Leaning forward, leaning down, he kissed John. Not a chaste touch of the lips. Slowly. It was a taste, experienced, warm, and John found himself leaning up into it. 

John enjoyed kissing. Well, he had enjoyed being kissed by women. Granted, the slight bit of stubble on Sherlock’s jaw was different. John had been concerned that it would leave him unable. As Sherlock’s hands began to move down John’s body, pulling him against that long frame, exploring their way down his back, John began to think lack of ability wouldn’t be a problem. Obviously, his flatmate was interested. Just as apparent, John was becoming aroused.

John’s hands slid around that slender waist, and he could feel Sherlock pulling his tee shirt up, skating hands under the fabric and beginning to touch. The embracing men were moving back, into John’s room, until the blond could feel the bed against the back of his legs. Sherlock gave him a push of those hips, and skinned John’s shirt up and off as his flatmate sat, bouncing slightly, on the mattress.

The tee shirt flew across the room, then those long fingers unfastened their own cuffs before going to work on the shirt front, Sherlock’s eyes never leaving John’s. Capable hands opened the leather belt, working the button through on those tight-fitting trousers, and unfastening the zip. John’s tongue flicked out to trace his lower lip, from habit. Sherlock gave a small gasp, and when the doctor looked up, the brunette’s lower lip was caught between his teeth.

Alright, then. John repeated it, slowly running his tongue over his lower lip, watching that beautiful face for tells. A deep breath in, and as John leaned forward to put his mouth on the now bare hip bone in front of him, sucking hard to leave a small mark, and then tracing over it with his tongue, Sherlock moaned. Enough to make John ache, and his own reaction was fairly obvious in the boxers that were his only remaining piece of clothing. Pulling on the trousers, dragging them further down, John was startled at the lack of pants beneath.

There it was. John, face to face, so to speak, with another man’s erect penis. Nervously he ran his tongue across his lips again, wondering what it would be like to take that in his mouth. He missed Sherlock’s hitch of breath, thinking more about a lack of finesse in performance than anything else. Sherlock had told John that he’d been with men and women. John knew that even a sloppy, badly done blow job could be enjoyable. Would Sherlock compare his own lack of experience with those who had gone before? It was worrying. 

He leaned forward to take the tip between his lips, but Sherlock moved his hips away. “John, time enough for that when we’re both able to explore.”

Sherlock looked down at that face, slightly concerned, worrying about being good for him. Sherlock found the idea endearing. Of course John would be good for him. And he had plans to be exceedingly good for John. Oh, the data he’d already received about his flatmate was tremendous. Dropping his trousers completely, the belt dragging them down with a bang to the floor, Sherlock pulled his friend up and reached to draw down his boxers.

Pleased, possibly smug, John’s madman acknowledged the revealed erection with a smile before crawling onto the bed and raising an eyebrow at John to follow. Lying on his side, facing the man he had fantasized about, Sherlock reached forward and put a hand to John’s chest, running fingers up his throat, catching the nape and pulling the man forward into another long, slow kiss. When released, John began to kiss along the pale column of throat presented to him, biting, sucking, leaving marks marching down the line from jaw to collar bone. Then he was being dragged up to meet the cupid’s bow of that mouth again.

A quiet whisper against John’s lips: “May I touch you?”

A shiver ran up John’s spine. “Yes.” Nothing more. Blanket permission.

Long, graceful fingers splayed out over John’s hip. “Yes?” It was that deep voice, intimate, close. A manicured finger trailed up over ribs lightly, bringing a giggle. John found it even funnier that Sherlock examined him, watched the ripples of the muscles from the giggle, following them along the skin with two of those elegant, purposeful digits. 

Slowly, almost unwillingly, they were drawn to the whitened ridge of scar tissue on John Watson’s shoulder. “Yes?” Sherlock was careful, requesting assurance that this was allowed. 

“Yes.” John’s reply was firm, though his body was tensing, and the erection was certainly fading. 

Sherlock nodded. The exploration was thorough, and John rolled over when asked, so that his friend could look at the entrance wound. There was mumbling, something about angles, questions that were not loud enough for John to understand, much less give response. Relaxing, actually, as strong hands began to knead the muscles. John made a noise of enjoyment. What had started as an exploration morphed into an entirely too comfortable massage. John, feeling boneless, did not have an identifiable moment when that massage turned into something more than a rubbing down, touches that excited and brought the erection back, pinned between John’s body and the bed. 

Sherlock was now straddling John, leaning down, and the blond doctor could feel his friend’s heated interest pushing against the bared skin of his back. “John.” The warm breath moved blond hair over the ear. “I see you prepared yourself for me.” A hand slid warm across his buttock. “A further invitation?” So far the sensuality, the sexuality, had not involved genitalia. Other than the obvious hardening of certain important parts. 

John struggled not to tense. Sherlock went on, “There does not need to be penetration, John. What would you like?”

“Sherlock, I...” but it was muffled in the bedding. John rolled over, Sherlock lifting off to allow him, looming over the smaller prone figure. “Yeah.” John’s grin was the one that came in reaction to “danger”. “Go ahead. Show me what I need to know. I only have the slightest idea of what to do next.”

Pale eyes flickered up and down his body, taking note of the strongly standing evidence that John was still in the game. Leaning down, one hand holding himself up on the mattress, Sherlock held out two fingers. “Suck.”

John ran his tongue along his lower lip deliberately, enjoying the again repeated hitch in Sherlock’s breathing as he did, paused then opened his mouth, leaning up to take the fingers inside. They slipped slowly in, then just as slowly out, then back in, John running his tongue along wondering if he was doing this all correctly. Must have been, for the tall, dark man above him groaned, pressed his body against the shorter man’s and replaced probing fingers with his own tongue.

The kiss was heated, and John was distracted by the teasing, tangling tongue. A hand glided down, between his legs, along the hardened cock, pulling a gasp out of John, caressing the sack and then saliva-slicked fingers began to trace and tease the tight opening they found there. Tight even after John’s earlier thorough cleaning out. That lovely mouth began to travel along John’s jaw, nipping and licking his throat, dropping down his body until a talented tongue wrapped itself around the waiting erection, while a teasing finger pushed, slowly entering, giving him time to acclimatize to the invasion, only one finger gliding in and out, finding that intimate spot that had John crying out. The pale skinned, dark-haired man put his deductions about the blond man lying prone beneath him to use; anything not of immediate involvement was put aside for later review.

Tongue and mouth continued to tease, distract the doctor, breaking off only to ask John to fetch the lube which was undoubtedly in his bedside table. John gave a puff of laughter, Sherlock’s finger still embedded within his body, and scrabbled sideways for the drawer, and then the container of lube. 

Fingers wet with the lube were sliding inside, pausing, waiting for him to be ready, then scissoring to stretch, John’s panting filling the room. “Tell me if you feel any pain, John. Pain is a sign that I’m doing it incorrectly.” Hearing that baritone in his ear - knowing what those long, elegant fingers were doing - was wholly unfair. 

Stroking across the place of pleasure and bringing John’s voice out loud again was fascinating. Sherlock was quite enjoying it, listening to John beg, call Sherlock’s name. “Sherlock, if you’re going to fuck me, you might want to get on with it,” his blond doctor gasped, pushing against those skilled fingers, three of them now.

A laugh, and emptiness as pillows were arranged and Sherlock pressed against John with another kiss. More lube, and he was pushing in, small thrusts, stretching as they went, for the detective was larger than his three fingers. When he’d filled the man beneath him entirely, there was a pause to allow adjustment, then lifting and thrusting, and striving to use this one night to show John Watson what skills he’d learned so long ago. 

When orgasm came, John’s entire body convulsed, arms braced, hands clutching at the mattress to keep his place. He was twitching, John realized, in every muscle from the top of his scalp to the soles of his feet. Otherwise he was tight around the long, hard thrusts of his string bean flatmate who even now was growing inside him before burying himself completely and finally, and attaining his own release.

Sherlock could not remember a time he had felt so relaxed. John’s head on his shoulder was right, as were the long fingers of the dry hand he began to run through his lover’s soft, sand-coloured hair. They had ached to do this since that night at the Initiative, and it was as enjoyable as he remembered. A sigh as he scratched slightly up John’s nape and into that thatch of plainly cut blondness, but no other movements. No tensing. Just touching. It was, so far as Sherlock was concerned, brilliant.

A happy sigh. “Feels odd. Not as sore as I thought I’d be.”

A deep laugh. “You’ll feel it tomorrow.”

“Mmm.” A hum. “I have to get up. Don’t want to.”

“We’ll stick together otherwise,” his flatmate rumbled in his ear.

“Mmm,” again. “You could get a flannel for us.”

“We’re both going to need to get up -” those fingers were still stroking “- but I’d very much like to come back to bed with you afterward.”

A smile, pleased, yes, so exactly John and absolutely what Sherlock wanted to see. “Yes,” John Watson agreed, giving blanket permission.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Merry Christmas!


	32. A Moment of Satori

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [Satori:]() \- a moment of complete and utter revelation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to Lunamoth116, who is my much appreciated Beta!

Sherlock Holmes woke up in pleasant warmth. Pima cotton sheets, single-ply, 800 count, knitted Jersey. Mattress slightly too soft. Thermal blanket instead of a quilt. Not his bed. Curled up in a ball, facing away from the door, toward a sunny window faced with sheers but heavy brown drapes pulled to either side. There was a heat source behind him. John. John was behind him, they were back to back, and the man was a furnace in bed. Straightening allowed more back-to- back contact, and the sleeping flatmate sighed and leaned back against Sherlock’s spine. 

Breathing evenly, carefully, Sherlock had to think about what to do. This was not an experience he’d had. First thought: roll over and examine John. The tall, thin man wanted to look at the blond’s face in sleep, at his posture as he dreamed, at his eye movements in REM. Close, very close. Not as if Sherlock hadn’t already watched John sleeping, but this was different, new. Watching from inches away instead of from the doorway. Or the couch. Touching close. What was John like waking to a partner, after an enjoyable amount of sex? Sherlock had certainly enjoyed it. John’s face during orgasm had indicated such as well.

Dull waiting for him to wake up. Yet there was not time to climb into his Mind Palace to assimilate the information he’d received so far. Not if he wanted to be aware when John awoke. Sherlock rolled, only to find John snuggling back against him, and Sherlock’s morning erection, something he’d not wakened to for years before recent events. Sherlock’s tumescent penis fit snugly against his flatmate’s arse. And throbbed harder. 

Arms, where should he put the one on top? The one on the bottom? Tentatively Sherlock slid his right under John’s neck, hand flat on the coolness of the sheet beyond, holding breath steady and hoping John would not wake up. John adjusted and remained asleep, the notch of his neck and shoulder fitting to the arm beneath. The other went over John and laid gently around the waist. Another sigh, more gentle breathing. Hugging. Hugging was not something he or Mycroft did. Mrs. Hudson was the exception. Now he was hugging John Watson in bed while he slept, naked, after putting his penis to good use within the man. Another throb from said penis. Sherlock had the great desire to rub against John, just slightly. No, honestly a good deal more than slightly.

He didn’t. Consent was paramount; John would be mortally offended without it. Possibly even the hugging was taking a great liberty, considering they’d been back-to-back when Sherlock awoke. The detective began to examine John Watson up close and very personal while the blond doctor remained asleep for some time. Smell: sweat and male body. Sound: steady breathing with an occasional soft snuffle. Taste: Sherlock kissed the naked nape before him, gently touching his tongue to the sweat-salted skin. Sight, of course: there was the blond hair, in need of a cut, the lined face relaxed in sleep. Touch: more than adequately taken care of with John’s body pressed up against his own.

John Watson woke up feeling extraordinary. Rested, refreshed, a slight bit of muscular strain, and with Sherlock Holmes spooning him from behind with a rather impressive erection pressed squarely against John’s bum. Well, then. That die had been cast, and thrown well. They were over the Rubicon of homosexual physical engagement. If his bed partner had been female, John would have rolled over and given her a long and involved good-morning kiss. Should work even with a man. Sherlock had said some things transferred over.

Carefully, as he’d experienced a penis caught under a rolling lover, John rolled over to face the dark-haired pretty boy he had been shagged by last night. Pale eyes flickered to meet his own blue, and John found himself giving a grin, instead of the discrete smile he would have shared with a more casual bed partner. “‘Morning,” he said, still grinning.

“Good morning, John.” It was said gravely, in the deep voice that stroked the ear.

John leaned up on one arm to kiss the mouth from which the voice emanated. A gentle touch of lips grew into a more involved greeting that included tongues and teeth. “A very good morning,” John said when their mouths broke apart. Then, because he figured that Sherlock was showing his, he gave his own morning glory a short grind against Sherlock’s body. “Could be better, though.” And it certainly did get better.

Reaching over John, pressing him back into the mattress, Sherlock grabbed the tube of lubrication from the bedside table and flopped back down next to his lover. A slight smile at the thought, at the word. Lover. Last night had gone well. John had not seemed to be having any crises during the act, nor after. Sherlock had been right. John made sex bearable. And John had been right. Sex was rather more than bearable. With John.

That long elegant hand slicked first John’s penis, and then his own, before pulling their hands to join. More lube then, and their hands rubbed both slippery cocks together, hot and hard, until they’d painted stomachs and chests with pulsing pearly white. 

They lay together, panting and trembling for a time before John huffed a big sigh and let eyelids close. “Tea,” he announced, and opened his eyes, smiling at his mad flatmate, “and a bit of toast for breakfast?”

A smile twitched the corner of that lovely mouth. “I could be persuaded.”

John quickly mopped his body with a damp flannel from last night - brought up in hopefulness and left by the bedside - then a sloppy track suit was pulled on over nudity. Sherlock Holmes stretched slowly, very much aware of the effect it had on his bed partner, and then stalked down to his own room completely naked. Reappearing moments later in pajama bottoms, a tee shirt, and his dressing gown, the singular flatmate rosined up his bow, tuned, and began to play. 

“Who wrote that, then?” John poked his head from the kitchen.

“Maurice Ravel.” The deep voice was amused. “ _Boléro_.”

John vaguely remembered the tune from a movie at some time in the distant past. Right. French music. Fairly passionate. Sherlock was not playing something sappy, or depressive. It would do. He turned to rescue the toast with a smile.

The shower later that morning felt good, hot, strong and necessary for those muscles he had overused last night, and pleasantly stretched earlier this morning. Even with the stiffness John felt better all over than he had in years. Relaxed - that wouldn’t last - and giving the echoes of pleasure that signified satisfaction. Yes, John did not ever remember being so completely and utterly content. Too soon after this morning’s release to begin thinking about Sherlock in a shower with him. Or possibly not. John’s smile took over and he finished off with cold water. A hum began as he stepped out and began the rough toweling of his short sand-coloured hair. 

Finally, towel wrapped around his hips, John Watson examined his face in the mirror. Such a plain ordinary face. Of course, it had served him well. Stubble visible, so he needed to shave. It was entirely possible they’d be called out this afternoon. 

Lestrade. God, what was he going to say to Greg? No, he wouldn’t have to say anything to Greg. His friend would know. Greg would take one look at John standing with the consultant, oriented toward him in an entirely different way, and it was impossible that the detective inspector would utterly miss that John had shagged Sherlock. 

For a moment John licked his lip, thinking of that tall, lean body under the black coat, the scarf wrapped about Sherlock’s long throat. The scarf would be...necessary today. Feeling warm again, trying not to giggle, John dragged his mind back to the subject. How should he behave with Greg? It wasn’t Greg’s face he saw at the thought; it was Sherlock’s, at the pub, starting to drink his porter and then putting it down at something Greg had said, closing his lips tight. What had Greg been going on about, his new girlfriend? Something about being physically compatible. 

Odd, Sherlock’s reaction at the pub. John started shaving. Nice thing, electric razors, they allowed you to think while getting the job done. Yes, odd. John would have thought his flatmate would be happy that Greg was divorced and moving on without his wife. Sherlock hadn’t had much use for her and the infidelity. Who would? They’d both encouraged Greg to move on. John rubbed his free hand over the stubble-free face and wondered. So what was the issue? 

Sherlock knew who Greg was dating. Sally Donovan? Never. Greg Lestrade wouldn’t be so unprofessional as to have an affair with one of his subordinates. That, and there was no chemistry there. Sally was still shagging Anderson. The git. Whatever could be said about Sally and her jealousy, it wasn’t that she slept around. 

Yet, Greg wasn’t saying anything. Which might just mean that he was seeing a superior. Why be so cagey otherwise? All of the officers who currently ranked above Greg were male. There had been one who had replaced that Chief Inspector. John felt a glimmer of satisfaction at the memory of chinning him. Greg hadn’t much liked his replacement, a woman. His dislike was not because of her gender; he said she was too much like Karen, his ex. Lestrade had told them when the divorce went through that he was going to look for someone who was the polar opposite of his former wife. 

But yeah, all of Greg’s current superiors were men. Was Greg seeing a man? That startled John a bit. He went back over what Greg had told him about his “friend”, and realized that the detective inspector had been gender-neutral in all of his statements. In fact, the exceedingly careful nature of everything that John could remember was suspicious in itself. So…Greg was dating a man?

Except that wouldn’t explain Sherlock’s reaction. Sherlock Holmes wouldn’t care about gender or race or anything physical. Attested to by his experiments with sexuality and a completely equal distribution of gender. It was all fine. It was the personality, the intelligence that mattered and regarding that the man didn’t hold back (witness Lestrade’s ex-wife). If it was someone at NYS, Holmes was not one to keep opinions to himself, Greg’s feelings notwithstanding. So, someone that Greg was seeing, a man, a superior that he was not taking the risk of admitting to dating. Someone that John’s flatmate refused to speak of. John thought about what Greg had told him. The man was not much for sport; they both liked cooking. John could hear Sherlock’s mutter from the pub: “And eating.” Oh, God…

There was a noise that John heard from a great distance. Something dropping into the basin, possibly a great number of things, making a considerable racket. A ringing in his ears, and a great blankness for a moment as he struggled with the realization and then Sherlock was standing beside him, gripping John’s upper arm, concern writ large on those fine features. John turned to look into those pale eyes under uncombed black curls. “Greg?” he croaked to his flatmate. “Greg Lestrade is dating Mycroft?”

Startlement, then narrowed eyes and, “Interesting.” A sly smile bloomed up into those high cheekbones. “Very interesting,” and those eyes were flickering from John’s thatch of uncombed, damp hair downwards to where John now realized that the towel guarding his modesty was slipping from his hips. Sherlock bent down and kissed John backwards until he felt the cold door on his naked back and arse, the towel having dropped to the floor. Or dragged off and thrown there. John kissed back as good as he was receiving. Really, Holmes was entirely too good a kisser considering he’d not done it for years before last night.

As for the touching, John reasoned as he felt Sherlock’s body plastered against his, not so much a problem so far. Not for either of them. That smooth-skinned, wiry frame slid easily downward, hands gripping John’s hips as Sherlock’s mouth set upon the tender skin between them. Biting, marking and licking his way, that skilled mouth, those cupid-bow lips, moved their way onto John’s growing erection. John’s head snapped backward, banging against the door behind him. “Agh!” It was a shout followed by a curse. 

After a few moments of heartfelt moaning, John gasped out, “Positive reinforcement?” He’d one hand gripping the bathroom door knob, and the other loosely woven into black curls.

Sherlock released his penis, laying a cheek against John’s thigh to ask, “Do you think it might work?”

“Yeah, no. I’d be thinking about your mouth instead of the puzzle, Sherlock,” he giggled. A shrug in response, then the slightly smiling mouth returned to its pursuit, and John banged his head against the door again. Sherlock’s mouth was enjoyably full of soft, velvet skin over iron-hard human hydraulics. The sensation on his tongue was exciting. 

John was incredibly responsive as well, even after their earlier activity in the bedroom. A place would need to be found in the Mind Palace for the interesting sounds that were echoing round the bath. The kneeling man wondered about John’s reaction to his voice; did it compare vice versa? Sherlock quite thought so. He’d never managed such easy erections before, but the sounds of John begging him and moaning at his touch, as his fingers combed through Sherlock’s hair, were all having a strong effect.

Those fingers were tightening now, and Sherlock could feel John growing larger in his mouth before he felt the pulsations begin, and sliding forward took all of John in his mouth to swallow down ejaculate.

John Watson sank down to sit against the door, panting, one hand still limply scrabbling at the door knob before settling on the floor, the other having released Sherlock’s hair and lying relaxed on John’s thigh. A deep breath, several, and then, “Just give me a moment, yeah? Then I can return the favor.” There were a few more pants, then, “I doubt I can give you quite as good a go though.”

Those long fingers were checking to see if he’d caught it all, but the face that peered up at John from under those dark, wicked lashes was gleeful. “I had rather hoped -” that deep, equally sinful voice made the shorter man shiver, even flaccid “- that you would use your hand on me, John.”

Yeah, John thought. That he could do. The lube was up in John’s bed. What could he use down here? Not soap, nor conditioner. There was the bath oil.

Grabbing the cheerful green plastic bottle, John crawled over to the long body deliberately displayed for him now - legs spread, erection evident, resting back on his elbows, gazing at John half in the bath, half out in the hallway. Sherlock was watching with his bottom lip caught between teeth. He lay back as John slid his body up alongside and took those lips in a sloppy, tongue-filled kiss. Tasting himself in Sherlock’s mouth was not so different from the same from some of his girlfriends. They’d not performed with such skill, though, nor that much gusto, John thought.

Well. John kissed his way along a very lightly stubbled jawline to whisper, “Did you think I wouldn’t notice how the bath oil level changed? Both of us using it to wank? You’ll have to tell me what you were thinking of.” John made a mess of slicking his hand, but that would clean up fine later. For now his hand slipped around the other man’s scrotum before taking hold of that man’s hardness and beginning to stroke. Slightly different from their wake-up this morning, with just John now.

Sherlock moaned his name and hardened further in his hand. So far, so good. John moved his hand slowly, not a deathly pace, but not in a hard and fast hurry as he would when masturbating. John was exploring. Palm across the top, fingers curved under and following the ridge underneath, thumb reaching the corona and riding up and over the glans. 

There it was, that lovely baritone groan. John leaned down and bit gently on the lobe of the closest ear. “I will do whatever you want, Sherlock. I want to learn how to take you in my mouth and give you as much pleasure as you just gave me.” Yeah, that got a reaction. “Tell me what you want,” was whispered before John began to trace Sherlock’s ear with the tip of his tongue, hand still moving, slippery and regular. 

“Just,” came a groan, “like that. Don’t stop, John.”

John licked delicately under the jaw, kissing, biting, marking this side to match the other as he shifted downward, his hand moving strongly and steadily. Sherlock began to arch his back, thrusting himself into John’s hand and the man altered his movement to match the thrusts.

Tracing along the pectoral muscles, John took his time outlining an aureole with just the tip of his tongue before using broad strokes. Sucking the nipple into his mouth, smiling at the response, John began to trade back and forth between the nipples, teasing, sucking, all the while keeping his hand steady in spite of the erratic hitching of Sherlock’s hips up into his hand.

“John!” that wonderful voice began to chant. “John, oh please, oh yes, like that, John!”

John took a bit of flesh between teeth and gently bit down. There was a shout, and Sherlock spasmed into orgasm. The shorter blond couldn’t stop himself, tipping his head to watch that face, mouth open, head tilted back; John could feel the semen pumping as his hand continued to stroke Sherlock through his orgasm.

They lay, for a while, on the floor until the heat of exercise cooled. “Join me in the shower?” Sherlock pulled up to sit, and looked down at the thin streaking mess up his belly.

“Is it safe?” John laughed.

“I think for a while, don’t you?” That smile showed in the seductive voice.

They decided that the shower was a little cramped for the pair of them, though John’s eyes slid closed with pleasure at the thought of having Sherlock’s long fingers giving him an unnecessary shampoo. Sherlock bent so far over as to be uncomfortable to allow John to reach his hair. “Remarkably pleasant,” he grumbled to his flatmate, “if I didn’t have to bend in half for you to do it.”

John laughed. “We’ll bathe together next time.”

The physical intimacy continued after they dressed, each in his own room, though not as intensely, until time came to pull on coats and walk out the door. Then, like a horse shuddering into its skin to remove a fly, Sherlock shrugged into his Belstaff and his demeanor changed. Smiling at John, straight-backed, he headed out, ready for The Work.

As a distraction, the interlude in the bath had worked so well that John had nothing at all planned for when he came face to face with Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade.


	33. Ah, Detective Inspector Lestrade

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crime scene after the big night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to LunaMoth116 for beta-ing! I greatly appreciate the input!

The black taxi, hailed outside of 221B with a flip of an elegant hand in the air, was familiar. Once inside on the bench seat, Sherlock found comfort in the everyday aspect of John Watson sitting beside him, blond head turned to watch through the window as London passed by. The two passengers were close enough that the tall detective could feel warmth, heat from John’s thigh bleeding through two layers of cloth, serge and denim, to Sherlock’s skin. Thoughtfully, a long-fingered hand, nails short and carefully maintained, was placed on the denimed leg beside his own. A moment passed. There were reactions and movements and bits and pieces of John to read, then a square hand, sturdy, capable, with those clever surgeon’s fingers, moved to rest on top. Not lightly; Sherlock could feel calluses, strength, deliberation in that hand on his.

Deliberate. John’s nervousness the night before had been quite evident. Not physical danger, and so the tremor was there, intermittently but definitely present. Clearly there was emotive hazard. John’s trust issues had been handed over to Sherlock with purposeful determination. Why? Why did John keep doing this? Was it a gift, the foolish desire to please Sherlock? His own selfish desire for more - for all of John Watson - was, after all, what had instigated the affair. 

Affair? Was this an affair? What was an affair, but a relationship that was short-term and fraught with poisonous consequence? Would he, Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective and - true to John’s inference - self-designated sociopath, wish to continue engaging in sex with John for a strictly limited period of time? No; that description, suggesting the finite, was inadequate for Sherlock’s purposes.

Last night and this morning had been pleasurable. John was an enormously responsive and thoughtful lover. Even so, what happened when the exploration and the excitement began to fade into familiarity? Dullness? 

Sherlock shifted - not enough to remove his hand or leg from John’s touch - as he continued to evaluate. Was John dull now, even though they’d been together for the better part of five years? Granted he’d left John after _The Fall_. Sherlock gave a soft snort of breath. John had him capitalizing that phrase now. The consulting detective was affected by the former army doctor, in ways Sherlock had never thought he’d be touched. Granted, “touched” was an alternative phrasing for “mad”, but three years without his friend had taught him the value of John Watson, the depth of his need for the man. Sherlock depended on John. 

Constantly on the watch as he was for addictive behaviors, the taller man leaned back and regarded his attraction. It was not addiction. Was it love? Wasn’t love an addiction? John felt strongly about him. Strongly enough that his short, light-haired partner had set aside a lifetime of mores and experience to have sex with him.

The sex had been enjoyable. No, more than enjoyable. Touching John, bringing him to orgasm - allowing his own body to sink in, to be gratified by John’s touch - was a world of difference from any previous experience. Not just last night when Sherlock had been buried deep inside of John, but this morning as well. Putting the blond against the door to the bath, overwhelming him with mouth and hands, had been amazing. Sherlock had felt so incredibly present. Reading his flatmate, using those revelations, that knowledge, to draw such a reaction, had engaged him. John’s response in kind afterward had as well. No, sex with John would not become dull, though it might be familiar. Familiar, then, was not automatically bad. Sherlock’s skull, his Mind Palace - they were familiar, wanted, if not constantly needed. Where did John stack up against those things? Certainly more necessary than his skull, though possibly not so much as the Mind Palace. And yet the Mind Palace was filled with John Watson and information relating to him. They were inextricably tied. 

What was it John needed? Well, John Watson required sex. Yes, but John had not been expecting to receive the pleasure he’d felt from the act of sodomy. The look of shock in those blue eyes when practiced fingers prepared him, stroking across the prostate, causing that spark of nerves relaying the message of delight. Sherlock was still, admittedly, feeling smug. His own physical pleasure of thrusting smoothly inside of the man topped - Sherlock missed the pun entirely - any other prior sexual experience. To receive gratification at John’s hand the next morning surpassed the shower time masturbatory fantasies as well. 

John was brave in this, willing to try new things - heterosexuality notwithstanding. Bravery facing himself, not the stupid type that sent men over the hill into gunfire. Would he have considered sex with John simply to keep the man in his life? Transport. Of course he would. Sherlock had sacrificed The Work for Dr. Watson. What was the use of his body compared to that? John was concerned that Sherlock was engaging in sexual activity with him for the right reasons. If Sherlock had not himself desired the act, then John would not have allowed it to happen. Strong moral compass and all. 

Sherlock remembered his experiments in sexuality, when he’d felt not fear but distaste. That entire sequence of events had been uncomfortable, his curiosity stronger than the momentary panic he felt at allowing others so physically, intimately close. No, he had certainly not been brave in that regard. Not as John had been brave last night.

What was John thinking of now? The future? Sherlock did not think his friend’s thoughts were of last night, nor this morning; body language told the detective that. A tightening of John’s hand on his brought Sherlock’s head around to see John’s small private sideways smile, those blue eyes flickering to meet his own in the window’s reflection before returning to gaze at the streets passing slowly by.

What had Sherlock learned in these past two days? John had given Sherlock control: of his body, of his emotional health, even with his trust issues. John had followed his direction, was responsive, had picked up on cues. John had had a strong reaction to Sherlock’s desire, and the detective wanted to repeat the experience, to see that expression on John’s face again. And again. And again.

Meanwhile, to the business at hand. Sherlock allowed the excitement, the anticipation, the curiosity about what lay ahead at the crime scene to wash over him. Death in an air-raid shelter? Best not to theorize before the data. Then, head propped back, a smile on his own face, the consulting detective began to catalogue John’s responses in the Mind Palace. He had gotten fairly far along when the taxi finally reached the address through heavy afternoon traffic.

John was rather shallowly flitting about in thought. Sherlock was, of course, caught up in his own musings. John could see that. On the cab ride over the consulting detective had sought out John’s touch. It was extremely pleasant; waking up to find Sherlock spooned around him had been wonderful. Perhaps Sherlock would not be as standoffish a father as they had feared. That brought the Initiative to mind, and John let himself be submerged into scheduling and planning for their next visit to the site. Now they were pulling up to the address, and John withdrew his hand to feed money through the opening between the cabby and the passenger area, leaving Sherlock’s cold above, and still warmed below until the shorter man climbed out of the taxi, looking round at a clearly expensive neighborhood. 

Time for The Work. Sergeant Donovan met them on the walkway. Her comment as they passed - “The detective inspector’s around the side by the garage” - given out curtly, caused John to stop dead in his tracks in a moment of panic. “Oh!” 

The doctor looked up and saw Sherlock’s amused grin. His flatmate spoke quietly, not for the sergeant’s ears. “Don’t think, John. Or rather, perhaps you should think about me instead.”

John Watson, grown adult, blushed. He had consciously been avoiding thoughts of that nature. A nervous, flexible tongue slipped across his lower lip, drawing Sherlock’s gaze, then those pale blue eyes snapped back to stare into his. They were in an eddy of activity, and Sherlock’s next comment was quiet as well, for John only. “A murder, John! Let’s find out why they called us?”

Laughter bubbled up. Unexpectedly, Sherlock Holmes was grounding him. A nod, and then the taller man swept around in a swirl of black coat and away through NSY technicians toward the back of the house. John smiled at Sergeant Donovan by the caution tape, surprising a smile in return from her. Chuckling, he followed his mad flatmate. A series of concrete circles mimicking stones led the way.

Sherlock took everything in, motioning for John to precede him. There were signs of access, and plainly not just from the CID squad. Turning round the corner of the house, he could see Anderson and John with their heads together over the body, and the officers at the scene moving busily about with cameras and equipment. As John came back to him the detective murmured, “Dioxin.” Sherlock’s surmise was verified by a quick nod of his flatmate’s head. “And yet that would not be the cause of death,” stated the dark-haired man absently.

“Anderson thinks anaphylactic shock. I’m inclined to agree from as much of an inspection as we can make before a postmortem. He’s holding a used EpiPen,” John said, before relaying the bad news: “Also, it’s a diplomatic case.”

“Mycroft,” grumbled Sherlock.

“And so they’re going with accidental death,” John commented quietly.

“Murder,” stated Sherlock. 

John examined the scene again. The corpse, pockmarked and covered with distinctive chloracne, was lying half in, half out of a cement-lined hole in the dirt of the garden. Behind him lay a circular hatch pushed back, its thick, flanged edge gouging into the soft earth. 

One outstretched hand held an EpiPen, the cap off and the single-use object conspicuously spent. The man had been older, lank gray hair spilled about his scarred, beak-nosed face.

“How do you figure?” John enquired, interested.

“I think we will find -” his friend gave the familiar smirk “- that his blood is filled with evidence of an allergic reaction, yes. Throat and nose closed due to swelling. No sign of the official contents of the EpiPen in his blood. Epinephrine negligible.”

The black-coated detective walked to squat by the body, keeping on the hard surface of the cement walkway leading to the shelter. For a wonder, Anderson was not commenting, though his sour expression managed to condescend as well as curdle milk. Sniffing close to the blue-tinged lips, Sherlock examined the tee-shirted dead man, making John aware of how chilly the afternoon was, before spending time examining the cold, unmoving fingers of both hands. “I need to see his feet,” he murmured.

“When we haul him up.” Anderson sounded bored, strongly put-upon over the expected annoyance. Sherlock disappeared for a while after that, moving swiftly through rows of bloomless rose canes, bobbing up and down to glance over the hedges lining the yard.

John was standing with Greg Lestrade when Sherlock finished his investigation. “Look into the nephew, his brother’s son, who has been poisoning him with the dioxin. Regulated, and should be possible to track, of course. He was murdered by his brother-in-law - wife’s brother - though. Tree nut allergies, and allergens loaded into the EpiPen instead of epinephrine.”

Laying out the train of evidence that led to those conclusions was always satisfactory when John was present. Sherlock accounted for everything as Greg took notes. As he was finishing up the description of the brother-in-law’s work boot’s damaged hobnail, a large, dark vehicle pulled in to the kerb in front. Lestrade, putting his moleskin away in an inner pocket, went over with a spring in his step to speak through an opened window. Typical, Sherlock thought darkly. How had it taken John this long to realize about the unquestionable physical relationship? Not that anyone else had noticed.

Mycroft pressed the button to lower his window, a corner of his thin-lipped mouth quirking upward in indication of how palatable it was to see Greg Lestrade walking to him. “Afternoon, Mr. Holmes,” Greg said, smiling slightly; that handsome face, younger than the silver hair above, was kept serious for anyone watching.

“Ah, Detective Inspector Lestrade,” was the calm reply. “Always a pleasure to speak with you. The murder is not too gruesome this time?”

“No, not as such,” Greg replied in kind. “You here for Sherlock?” His question sounded mildly curious. The police officer looked over his shoulder to where Mycroft’s brother was ostentatiously ignoring them, clad in that wool coat that was too thick for the season, even with the chill in the air. Certainly Holmes did not need that scarf at this time of year. John was wearing a sensible wind cheater. John’s face, however, looked sickly as he watched Greg, Mycroft, and the car, posture rigid, and hand completely steady at his side. What was that about?

Greg almost laughed. “Here to put the fear of God into John Watson, are you?” he said, turning back to look down at the auburn-haired bureaucrat. “What did Sherlock do now?”

A smile, pleased, then Mycroft answered in that careful, proper voice, “Possibly the first. And to invite you to dinner tonight. Perhaps also to warn you of the involvement of the victim in treasonous activities, as well as the obvious child abuse.”

Greg was now watching John Watson sideways as his short ex-military friend turned to concentrate on something entirely other than the Mycroft car, Sherlock, or anything Holmes. “I’d like to see you. A late dinner? Thai Garden? It looks as though I will be at the pub right after work tonight.”

“That would fit into my schedule, yes.”

...

“So -” John took a drink of lager “- about this person you’re dating?”

They were not at their regular table, instead sitting on a bench against the paneled wall with fresh pints and looking out at the packed humanity all speaking at once on Trivia Night. The pair of them had finished the initial greeting and people-watching that began their usual pub nights. After a while there had been silence, until John had chosen to break it. Greg looked down into his beer, examining the amber depths with false interest. “Was that why you were giving me that look when Mycroft showed up? Did Sherlock tell you?”

“Figured it out myself,” John said neutrally. Greg took a pull at his pint, and John went on quietly, “After I spent the night in bed with Sherlock.”

Greg Lestrade fought the spit-take, swallowing painfully. “You utter bastard!” was followed by, “What? Really?”

“Yeah.” John took another swallow. 

Greg gave his friend a good, long look. John Watson - short and stocky, plain blond hair growing a little long from its usual conservative cut, blue eyes staring down into the glass mug of beer - refused to look back at Greg. The hand lifting the glass trembled. John put the drink back on the small round pub table, settling his left hand into his lap, hiding its tremor.

John knew that Greg was looking him over. What on earth could the doctor say? So many possibilities, and all of them insulting or just wrong. Let’s see, there was, “I came over all gay, I guess”, or “Remember when I said I was not gay? Apparently I was wrong”. “Yeah,” he repeated instead.

It was Greg’s turn to be uncertain of what to say. “John, you can talk about it with me. However much or little you want, right?”

“No idea what to say, Greg. But thanks,” John responded with a pained grin. A thought struck the shorter man, and he went on hesitantly, “You know that you can talk to me as well? Not sure I can be any help, but I can listen. If you’ve a need.”

The detective inspector gave a snort. “Aren’t we a pair? Bloody Holmeses. Alright, so this was unexpected for you? I’d never looked at a man like that before Mycroft.”

John shook his head, then said, “No. Not expected. Really, even in the service there was no one I gave a second look to who wasn’t female. Sherlock told me early on that it wasn’t his area. It’s just been since he learned about the Initiative that he’s spoken to me about…his interest.”

“Let me guess,” Greg laughed, “not a virgin?”

“Nope,” John answered, popping the last consonant. “I don’t think sex was what Moriarty was talking about with the nickname. But I’m guessing Mycroft is not an ‘iceman’, either?”

“Nope,” Greg echoed his friend’s pronunciation. The taller, silver-haired man took a long drink of his lager before asking, “So…does this mean it’s just you and Sherlock now? No more flirting with the girls down in Records?”

“Not sure. Like you said before, ‘Early days’ and all that,” John mused, “and I have no idea what Sherlock wants in the long run. Hard to tell, really, and I’m not going to badger him with what he calls ‘sentiment’. I’m trying to follow his lead. But I think we’ve already determined that I’m here for the long term.” 

Greg was looking up at the ceiling, a painted confection of tin squares. “Do you want sentiment? I mean, not just emotional attachment, but open affection? What is it that you really want from a relationship?”

John’s eyes followed Greg’s and he contemplated the ceiling with his friend for a while. Then he said simply, “When I dated Sarah I was looking to get off with her. Yeah, it would have been nice to find the one right woman. Nice to be in love and get married and have kids and a life. And yeah, a relationship should come with amazing sex, of course.

“But I’ve been in a relationship with Sherlock for years now, without thinking about it that way. I agreed to raise a baby with him. Which you thought was barking mad, as I recall. And which Harry thought was an announcement that I’d come out of whatever closet she thinks I’ve been hiding in. Buggery fuck, but my sister is going to make my life a living hell over this!”

Greg began to laugh and looked down at John, straight in the eye. John found himself looking back, grinning, and joined in. It was a little reluctant at first, but when Greg started to laugh harder at his reaction, the doctor found himself dragged along for the ride. Their laughter was the stuff of overwrought nerves and the release of tension, and it went on until their eyes teared up. When the sighing stage appeared, Greg signalled for fresh drinks, and they waited. The buxom redhead at the bar sent them over with the server - college student, John figured - before the silver-haired older man spoke again. “Mycroft, as part of our first official week dating, sent me an awful lot of material on human sexuality.”

“Not any sort of a surprise, Greg. I shudder to think what I’m going to find at Baker Street when I get back to the flat.” John pulled his mobile, checked the blank, excruciatingly non-communicative screen, and waved it at the detective inspector before finishing with, “Sherlock has been frighteningly silent since we left the crime scene earlier. I’m to meet him for dinner later.”

“Can’t be any easier for him, John,” Greg said before taking a long drink.

John echoed his friend. Putting the mug down finally, he agreed: “I know. He was watching me sideways while I made tea this morning. It was as though he thought I was going to go running out into the street if he stopped looking.”

Greg raised an eyebrow. “He was observing you for data, John. Has he ever had any kind of long-term relationship that wasn’t family, or related to The Work?”

John shook his head. “Prior to last night his experience was entirely experimental. I don’t think he’s ever slept with someone. Not sex, sleeping. Or at least not since he was a child.”

“Sex, but no emotional intimacy?” Greg asked. “That sounds like the Holmeses. First time I stayed over at Mycroft’s was a year ago Christmas. He invited me for hot chocolate, popcorn, and old movies on Christmas Eve. I ended up staying over until the New Year. We’d had sex before that, you understand. But spending time like that? Sharing his space? Sleeping in his bed with him? Completely new for Mycroft.”

“I can guess.” John found himself smiling. “Woke up this morning to find Sherlock cuddling. Never figured him for a cuddler.”

“Took Mycroft a while to get used to that. Touching without expecting immediate sex as a response. Or that some touching is non-sexual.” Greg took a drink before pointing out, “Don’t get me wrong. I had a lot to learn, too. All of my experience was with women, and most of that with Karen. Men are…different.”

John gave a sigh. “I feel...” he began, then restarted, “Everything is new, in a way. I knew where I was going with most women. I certainly had enough experience. This is all too much like being young and unsure and spotty again.”

Greg grinned. “I notice you didn’t say ‘small’...”

“Young,” John repeated firmly, before snorting, “and get stuffed!”

“Well,” Greg said, considering before speaking, “ask if you have questions. Also...” There was a pregnant pause. “I give you fair warning, as the Holmeses are posh and all. You’re going to be labeled a ‘bit of rough’ at some point.”

John turned to look at him in surprise. “You’re,” he said slowly, “a Detective Inspector for New Scotland Yard. A professional. White collar and all. How would anyone define you as a ‘bit of rough trade’?”

“It was only the once -” Greg smiled at his expression “- that I heard, anyway. We were at one of the better establishments, Mycroft and I. Having dinner. Afterward one of his old schoolmates came over to the table. You know how it goes. I took advantage to use the gents.

”When I came back I heard that comment. The bit about ‘rough trade’. And Mycroft’s response.” There was an evil grin now, proud as well, before Greg went on, “Mycroft gave him his frostiest voice, the one that makes diplomats want to crawl away and hide. He said, ‘Detective Inspector Lestrade has more education than you ever will. He constantly updates his credentials for the Yard, with top marks, and has worked to better this city for his entire career. How does that stand against your banking career, trading questionable stocks after a less than stellar performance at uni?”

John’s whistle gave Greg’s grin strength. Then John gave his own grin, a wry one. “I shudder to imagine what Sherlock would have said.”

“Yeah.” Greg’s eyes laughed, though his tone was steady as he said, “Imagine!”

…

Sherlock’s eyes focused off over Mycroft’s left, nicely tailored shoulder, as his older brother leaned comfortably back in the chair that was John’s alone. Slouching casually in his chair, collar open and revealing bright marks along that lengthy throat, the younger brother picked at the strings to the instrument held upright in his lap with no discernible tune, seeking those notes that irritated his brother most. Mycroft spoke: “Sex is, of course, quite useful as a leash, Sherlock.”

“Dull,” Sherlock answered in monotone. “Overdone. Jim compared John to a dog as well.”

Mycroft gave him a sharp look and sharper reply: “I was speaking of the chain around your own neck. Did you give John Watson what you thought he wanted? Is this a method he can use to control you in the future, brother dear?”

The tall, slender man, no longer a boy, yet who still worried his older brother constantly, jerked at the comment. Eyes sharpened into focus on the long-nosed face that was so familiar. “Mycroft -” it was said gently, more kindly than the elder had heard in some time “- I initiated. Because sex with John was something I wanted. Wanted. I will not use it to keep him with me if he should desire to leave, nor is it a method of control that he will use on me. At least -” this was pushed out slowly “- no more than any other couple. I suppose we are not what anyone sane would label as regular, would they?” A tiny smile, all that was necessary in their family, conveyed the humor.

“Poor impulse control,” grumbled the “British government”.

Shaking his head, Sherlock disagreed. “This has been a long time coming, Mycroft. I waited, and I made certain that this was something with which John was comfortable. Where it goes now? I have hopes, of course…”

A heavy sigh, then Mycroft Holmes gave a small nod. Sherlock nodded back, then asked, “Do you think Mummy and Father would have approved of them, Mycroft? Greg and John?”

“I had not thought...” Mycroft began, before granting him the tiny Holmes smile. “Yes, Sherlock, I believe they would have.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also, [_Tell Me I’m A Bad Man_ by 221b_hound](http://archiveofourown.org/works/765581) \- a story about foul language. The series it's part of, Guitar Man, is where “buggery fuck” comes from, and after reading the entire series I found myself thinking those two words… well, a lot.


	34. Aftermath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Now that the Culverton Smith case is solved, time to get the ball rolling...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to Lunamoth116 for her insights and beta-ing!

The time had come. Serious progress toward preparing for the baby’s becoming a member of their household needed to be made. Once the flat had been scoured clean of any signs that Culverton Smith had ever been there, the kitchen had been renovated and 221C had been made fit for habitation. Sherlock did indeed have contacts who provided their office with professional furniture - a desk set and two sturdy chairs facing a more comfortable couch and conversation area - as well as laboratory equipment, and a twin-sized bed and bedroom suite. Hauling the professional books and files down the stairs had been a monumental effort that Sherlock had paid members of his homeless network to accomplish. John packed and unpacked all of the boxes once they were transported, shelved books, and organized files - that is, when his flatmate was not yanking them from his hand demanding to know where had that file been, he’d thought it lost.

John redirected the irritating man to the kitchen, which Sherlock was in the process of setting up as a replacement lab, now that the kitchen upstairs was no longer available. To prevent any misunderstandings, the electric kettle was given a place of honor behind the desk in the office. Tea supplies were stored in the cabinet beneath. 

They’d survived the inspections. John had been overwhelmingly pleased at Sherlock’s portrayal of a dull, proper businessman when interviewed by the Social Services personnel. All he had hoped for was that Sherlock would not send them screaming off into the night in an emotionally scarred state. It was only after the men and women had left with their tablets and spreadsheets checked that John indulged his flatmate by asking him to deduce each one.

Next came hiring “not a nanny” as John was calling it. The advert had not been easy to write. “Wanted, live-in part time childcare/housekeeper for newborn. College student preferred. Central London. Must have clearances and references. Bilingual - English and French required. Multiple languages beyond preferred.”

They’d not written more than that. The online matchup sites for “nannies” had been very chatty. Neither John nor Sherlock had felt comfortable placing personal information on those sites. Sherlock had offered, “My partner and I are seeking someone intelligent to provide part-time care for our newborn son. Neither idiots nor criminals need apply.” 

Aside from John’s struggle to hide his discomfort at the word “partner” in its obviously new sense, he was not happy when Sherlock had pointed out that they might be able to find some very interesting criminals to hire who were non-violent and could teach young Siger how to pick locks and pockets. John had put his foot down on that idea. The number of responses to the advertisement had been large, and the culling had been amusing. Sherlock’s reading of each applicant had tended toward the scathing. In the end they’d selected a variety, scheduled interviews, and prepared the office for visitors. Readying the office consisted of clearing out the chemical smell from Sherlock’s most recent laboratory experiment, once again involving spinal cords. 

The individuals who had shown up to the interviews had been interesting, to say the least. The fourth woman, currently speaking with Sherlock in French, had probably the most oddly shaped breasts that John had ever seen. They couldn’t be natural. The French had passed John’s limited understanding, although he was picking up more of Sherlock’s than the young lady’s words. John began to drift into his own thoughts. Thinking about the situation between himself and Sherlock helped him organize. Some things had not changed. He couldn’t say that he was any more worried over his flatmate’s safety now that they had been physically intimate. He’d already been as concerned as anyone could be. He still stitched the man up. Patched, tended, enforced hydration and nutrition, as well as sleeping. Sleeping was not so much an issue. Sherlock was more than willing to go to bed, although on an absurd schedule. John tended to wake in the middle of the night in Sherlock’s bed with an eager bedmate. The activity made it easy to go back to sleep with that bedmate curled around him. Sherlock had pointed out that he’d waited until the end of John’s sleep cycle before waking him. And he tended to sleep after sex. So one change was that Sherlock slept more.

Ah, Sherlock was standing and giving forth the standard, “We will let you know.”

Days of interviews passed in what his flatmate described as “tedium”, and John had to agree.

Later was a tall, dark-haired young man, studying psychiatry, apparently. Something about this kid was troubling to John. Possibly the hair, longer than Sherlock’s. His posture, maybe; it was an arrogant slouch. On first impression John had thought he wouldn’t entrust a pet to this pre-med student. Perhaps it was that the boy reminded John unfavorably of someone from his years at Saint Bart’s. Sherlock was drawing stories of nights at the pub with a persona shouting, “We’re all men here!” Ordinarily John would find Sherlock’s characterization amusing. Right now he was bored.

More importantly, John went back to thoughts of Sherlock, who was not standing quite so close, quite so often as he used to. John found himself missing the sense of overbearing presence, but he felt, oh, a sense of trust. That Sherlock knew where he was at every moment on a crime scene and they were still linked. Donovan had remarked on the physical distance: “You two having a domestic?” It was said with sarcasm. “He doesn’t keep you running, demand your constantly dancing attendance now?”

Next interview John almost felt as though he was at a crime scene listening to Sherlock questioning a witness. It brought back thoughts of the last crime scene they’d visited. Homicide and suicide. Barely a four. They’d not been needed, had just happened upon the scene while chasing after one of Sherlock’s cold cases. John had gotten talking to Lestrade, asking if anyone had noticed anything different about the pair, now that they were actually a pair. No gossip really, Greg had said. Oh, and no. “No betting pool on when you’ll shag. Or if. There is one on" - and this was said with finger quotation marks - “when John will get fed up and walk out.” The light-haired doctor had not told his ebon-hair flatmate about that.

“Yes. Quite impressive. We will let you know,” intruded on his consciousness. This was said quickly in Sherlock’s most bored tone with as little breath as possible. John looked up from the CV he was supposed to be reading, startled. “What? No, we’re -?” only to close his mouth with a snap at a look from his flatmate. “Yes, thank you for coming,” he said warmly, standing politely. Sherlock remained slumped and staring off unfocused as his friend and lover escorted the tall, extremely well-built brunette to the door making polite conversation.

Trudging down the steps to 221C, John waited until the door closed behind him before saying, “What was wrong with that one?”

“Aside from her insipid small talk and tasteless costume jewelry? She padded her CV and thought she would be hired to a cushy position by flirting with us and showing off her appalling cleavage. ‘I just love babies!’” Sherlock’s mimicry was dead on.

John pinched his nose. “That’s the seventeenth. And last. Of the applicants we culled from their CVs.” Turning to the desk, John uttered one word: “Tea.”

“Yes, one for me as well.” As an afterthought, “Please” was added in a lazy baritone. 

Well, that meant the end of the selected applicants. Sherlock was speaking again: “Two alcoholics, one of whom steals office supplies for resale, John. Another is bitter over an affair with her professor, one is blackmailing his professor for a homosexual liaison, yet another cheated on the outcomes for her research. Two women and a man with video gaming addictions. Four with addictions of a more unsavory nature. More than half blatantly sucking up -” and here was another mimicry “- ‘I just adore your blog, Dr. Watson!’”. Sherlock tilted his head to the side with an empty look on his face and fluttered those long dark eyelashes at his friend. 

“I’d say you dismissed them all for their gender if two of the applicants hadn’t been men.“ John had filled the kettle and switched it on.

“Being a woman does not make one an imbecile.” Short and annoyed. John’s thoughts jumped to Irene Adler wearing her “battle dress” and enticing his brilliant lover with her wit. He hoped that Sherlock had not noticed how stiff his posture had become.

The doorbell rang. “Applicant, John.”

John made a face. “Can’t be. That was the last of them.”

Silence. John sighed, two mugs readied for the still heating kettle, and walked upstairs to answer the door.

“Hello!” John looked down into a cheerful smile. The woman at the stoop would be his height if they were on level ground. She waited a moment before going on; expressive, unmanicured eyebrows were hiked up over bright blue eyes. “I’m here to meet with Dr. Watson and Mr. Holmes for the Business Manager position? I have an appointment?” Still cheerful, that pleasantly low voice, but sounding questioning. 

John stepped aside to let the woman in. “Yes, come in please.” What else could he say?

Because John had been hit with her appearance unexpectedly, he found himself cataloging as much as possible, down to her somewhat frilly dark purple dress and the gold band on a chain around her neck. 

Showing her into the office, John’s eyes went immediately to Sherlock who was giving the applicant a frowning scan. Turning his pale gaze to John, the consulting detective seemed to be holding back a scowl as he uttered, “Mycroft.”

“You must be Mr. Holmes,” the woman said as she extended a hand. Sherlock took it in a quick fluttering shake. She turned to John. ”And Dr. Watson?”

Shaking her hand, John admitted, “I’m afraid we weren’t expecting you, Ms...?”

“Alice Brown.” She spoke her name with a hint of resignation. “I was sent by Anthea Price for the bookkeeping position.”

“Bookkeeping?” John turned to look meaningfully at his partner.

“OhJohnbythewayMycroftissendingsomeonetotakecareofourbookssometimeinthenextfewdays,” came out with no punctuation in an ostentatiously bored tone.

Wrong-footed, John strove to recoup. “Ah. Please sit down, Ms. Brown. I was just making some tea. Would you care for any?”

By the time John returned to the sitting area with a tray holding tea and accompaniments, Sherlock was asking, “You hesitated when giving us your name. Why?”

“Alice Brown?” she said as though they should recognize it. “ _Gentle Alice Brown_? ‘Her father was the terror of a small Italian town; Her mother was a foolish, weak, but amiable old thing; But it isn't of her parents that I'm going for to sing?’”

John blinked at her, then set the tea tray down. “Sounds familiar for some reason, but I don’t know the song.”

Alice Brown started, “Gilbert…” 

And Sherlock finished, “...and Sullivan? Interesting. Not one I’m familiar with. I had thought of Alice Brown, pseudonym of Mary Alice Ruderham, who was strangled by William Leavitt, a blind man who sold songs on the streets in Boston in 1897. Not the Alice Brown who was writing popular essays in that city during the same period.”

Both the woman and John turned to stare at Sherlock. “That should have been deleted, “ the man muttered to himself, ignoring them both. “No question of who killed her. The murderer confessed. Frequently. To anyone who would listen. No, wait. His hands were measured and the defence contended that an oddity of his left thumb was not present in the marks about her throat, which were from a much larger hand. Not deleted, as it was not proved by evidence, but confession.”

“Well,” Alice Brown said faintly, “I guess it’s a common enough name. I’m more used to people quoting the _Bab’s Ballad_ to me though.”

John smiled and provided her with tea, plain, placing the sugar and creamer close by. “I’m surprised he didn’t come up with a more modern crime. Please have some biscuits. They’re made by our landlady.”

“Yes, well...” Sherlock sat up with his own mug of overly sweetened tea and began to grill the woman about her past employment. It was surprising to see Sherlock engaged. Perhaps the day was not going to be a waste after all. Unless, John thought, she was a murderer and Sherlock was finding her professionally interesting.

“Ms. Brown has been recently widowed, and has a teaching background, John.” That came at the end of her recitation. “She did not care for the overcrowded classrooms, so she went back to get a Chartered Accountancy certification. Why did you accept the position teaching older children when you were initially involved in Early Childhood Development?”

Alice Brown hid her startlement fairly well. “I helped my sister with her children before my marriage. It seemed wise to take the better paying position when she moved to Canada. Ms. Price did warn me that you might say surprising things. How did you know I was a teacher?”

“Posture. How you read the room when you entered. Phrasing.” Sherlock listed them off in rapid fire. “The Office Management position does include some childcare aspects. We would need you to start next week.”

John stopped the “What? When?” that tried to escape.

Alice Brown took a drink calmly before asking, “Child care?”

“Sherlock’s son, Siger,” John told her. “He will be born in the next two weeks.”

“Our son, John,” Sherlock reminded him quickly, looking up from his mobile screen. Drinking his tea with one steady hand while the other searched for something on the mobile, he asked without much attention to anything else, “You have the contracts, John?”

“Our son,” John repeated, smiling to himself, before speaking directly to Alice Brown, “is due in the next two weeks. We won’t be here at Baker Street. We’ll be attending the birth, but you would be able to get our office organized. You can answer emails, read up on past cases, get an idea of what sort of jobs we’re looking for. Erm, start on our taxes?”

“Oh!” Sherlock sat up quickly. “This is marvelous!” His reading resounded through the cellar room, “‘I have helped mamma to steal a little kiddy from its dad, I've assisted dear papa in cutting up a little lad. I've planned a little burglary and forged a little check, And slain a little baby for the coral on its neck!’"

John stared at him. “Sherlock, what?” Alice Brown rolled her eyes. She’d heard it before. 

“It’s the poem.” The woman’s voice was resigned. “ _Gentle Alice Brown_. She’s the daughter of a bandit and commits all types of horrible crimes with her family.”

“That explains it.” John shook his head. “Right up Sherlock’s alley.”

“Is there music to this?” The dark-haired detective looked up from his mobile at the woman Alice Brown.

“None of which I am aware,” the blonde said carefully, shaking her head.

Sherlock jumped up. “John, have Alice sign the contracts and introduce her to Mrs. Hudson. She’ll need a key as well. I’ll be upstairs.” The tall, thin man was out of the room and up the steps before either had a chance to react further.

“Um.” John looked at Alice Brown. “Are you interested in the position, Ms. Brown?”

There was laughter in those blue eyes as she asked, “What is the nature of the childcare, Dr. Watson?”

“John, please.” The man smiled at her, and told her, “You could be caring for Siger if we are called out on a case during your scheduled working hours. It would be helpful if you were available at other times as well. We are still looking to hire an _au pair_ to be available over nights. The bedroom at the back of the office would be for whomever we hire.”

There was an answering smile. “Alice, then. Alright. I think that I am interested in the position.” They discussed salary - listed on a sheet very helpfully prepared by Mycroft’s people - and hours and expected duties. John had found those while paging through the manila folder, which also contained a contract for Office Manager that had not been present the day before, and had been put together by...well, probably Anthea. Another page in the file was cobbled together from the Internet by John. Alice Brown read them both through carefully before looking up at John with a question in her eyes, waving the sheet of paper with the words, “the employer will not perform experiments of any sort on the employee, unless a separate contract for the specific experiment is signed by both parties”.

John’s mobile beeped at him. The text read, “Alice Jane Miller Brown’s references, clearances, and background checked out by Mycroft. Ensure the contracts are signed. SH”.

It was immediately followed by a second text: “Regarding the _au pair_ , use connections. Ask Mike Stamford to look for someone appropriate. SH”.

And then a third: “YOU need to ask Mike Stamford. He would think my request to be for alternative purposes. SH”. 

John took a deep breath, brought his mind back to the question at hand, then began to explain.

…

Much later, following Mrs. Hudson’s enthusiastic reception of Alice Brown -at first their landlady had mistaken Ms. Brown for a cousin of John’s- and after the signing of the contracts, and John walking Alice to the door, the short, blond man closed up the office and went up the steps to 221B. Sounds leaked through the door as he pushed it open and entered the flat. Leaning against the newly closed door, John watched his tall, elegant flatmate pull the bow across the well-tuned violin strings. A pencil was hidden in the black waves of hair above Sherlock’s right ear. The man’s concentration was fixed on the notes he was playing. “John!” Sherlock welcomed him. “Did Alice Brown sign the contracts?”

“Yeah!” John grinned and laughed. “So we’ve got some help with the childcare, anyway. And I’ll get on to Mike about anyone he thinks might do.”

Sherlock nodded, still playing his violin, as he asked, “How far are we on your checklist?”

John found his chair and sat down. “We need a rocking chair, an _au pair_ , and the baby. Everything else on that list has been taken care of.”

The horsehair bow came down, and those pale eyes fixed on John’s face. “I’d like you to consider moving in with me. We sleep together most nights as it is.”

That brought a laugh from the seated man, as John teased, “I moved in with you long ago, Sherlock.”

The look of irritation washing over the standing man’s face transformed into understanding. “Is that John-speak for yes, Dr. Watson?”

“Why, I do believe it is, Mr. Holmes,” John returned, “if you are asking me to share your bedroom. Were you planning on turning my room into a nursery then?”

The response was hesitant. “It would be a logical step.” 

John thought about it. His flatmate loosened the horsehair of the bow, and placed that and the violin in the case carefully, giving him time. “Sherlock,” the shorter man said thoughtfully, “if we make the upstairs bedroom into a child space, then we need to find a space for me. You’ll have the lab downstairs. I will be giving up my reserve place.”

Sherlock nodded. There was a moment of quiet. John admitted to himself he was pleasantly surprised. The doctor had honestly expected his flatmate to attack the validity of his sentiments. 

He offered, “We can try. I would like any suggestions you can come up with using your super intelligence for finding me a spot to…”

“Go to when you lose your temper?” suggested Sherlock. “Access your inner ‘Rage Bucket’?”

That got a chuckle. “Yeah,” John admitted. “We can do that, yeah?” he asked.

“Yes, John. We can do that.” Sherlock relaxed. He went on with a smirk, “Although I am spending more time in the bedroom now. Which is entirely your fault.”

“Although,” the doctor offered, “we don’t have to limit our activities to the bedroom.”

Sherlock’s eyes crinkled at his friend. His voice dropped to a deeper register as he leaned forward over John in his chair. “Anywhere at all,” and then he was laughing, “until we have the baby, the _au pair_ , the bookkeeper, and Mrs. Hudson around all of the time. Perhaps we should be _active_ as much as possible before we leave for the Initiative?”

John pulled his lover down into a warm, gentle kiss. “Best get started then, yeah?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [_Gentle Alice Brown_ written by William S. Gilbert](http://www.poetry-archive.com/g/gentle_alice_brown.html) 
> 
> [ Blind Song Seller arrested in Alice Brown murder!](http://cdnc.ucr.edu/cgi-bin/cdnc?a=d&d=LAH18971109.2.35)
> 
> [Surprise contention in Alice Brown Murder Case!](http://cdnc.ucr.edu/cgi-bin/cdnc?a=d&d=SFC18971112.2.30)
> 
> ‘Ragebucket’ John courtesy of Bendingsignpost. Please go and read his stuff, it’s all good.


	35. Driving is a good time to talk? Yeah?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Don't try this at home. No, really...
> 
> An enclosed vehicle is no place to have a serious conversation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to Lunamoth116, who not only betas, but catches my embarrassingly incorrect uploads!

Driving to the Initiative, John thought, would be the perfect time to discuss any issues. Of course, he’d never had any such discussions in a car, and of course you wouldn’t in a taxi or on the tube. In the past such important talks had been either on a nice soft couch, a walk in the park, or at a cafe - if John was trying to prevent a scene. Nothing like bringing up issues where your girlfriend, no, your significant other had to behave. Not that being in public would stop Sherlock from making a scene if it suited his purposes. And issues? Was that the word John wanted to use? No. Would talking to Sherlock, a man, about their relationship, be all that different from speaking to, say, Sarah, or any woman John had had the discussion with before? Issues was such a bad word to use to discuss problems. Problem, another taboo word. So…relationship. Relationship was good, right?

And why exactly did John want to talk about the relationship with his flatmate anyway? Jealousy. Sherlock being possessive during the interviews for the _au pair_. Thirty-plus interviews. Thirty-two of them all told, and when a woman was involved, Sherlock had gotten progressively more acerbic. When Sherlock had broken up his other relationships it had been the same. Now he wasn’t even looking for another partner. He was happy with the one he had, thank you very much. John wanted others to see the brilliance of his flatmate. Not the irritating man who deduced the barista mercilessly because she’d smiled at John. Obviously jealousy. Wait, no, not jealousy. That word “jealousy” could lead to dilemmas, er…complications. No. Definition was what John H. Watson was seeking. Definition. Yes. What John needed was to know exactly where he stood with Sherlock. What did his mad flatmate want in the long term?

Right now the only definition John could think of in their interaction was Sherlock’s body. Those muscles were well defined once one got beneath the enveloping clothes, that flapping great coat. Chest, pectorals, flat and strong, not overly muscular. Really, John had been enjoying tracing his tongue down to circle…

No! Stop! For someone who had never engaged in sex with a man until so recently, John was letting himself get distracted too easily thinking about it. Dwelling on his flatmate’s features must have been what was making the interior of the car so warm, when the cold May rain was beating down on the roof. Sherlock never turned on the heat. At least not until John badgered him about it. “Transport, John!” The stocky doctor could hear the words inside his head.

Finally the nervous passenger licked his lower lip and asked, “Do you have the heat on?”

A smirk appeared, though the doctor could only see the corner of it. That deep voice asked over the beat of the windscreen wipers, “What do you actually mean, Dr. Watson?” A hand left the steering wheel to run fingers along his neck. John held still, and the hand returned to the wheel. 

The madman was speaking again: “Elevated heart rate, flushed face. What exactly are you thinking about, John?”

John Watson found himself grumbling under his breath, thankful that the irritation had overcome any obvious signs of arousal. With no other answer forthcoming, Sherlock pulled the vehicle off the road, shut off the engine and turned in the bucket seat to face his friend. The pinging of the rain on the roof increased in intensity.

“What?” John got out of his mouth before the aggravating flatmate could get a word in.

“There is something you want to discuss.” It was a statement, not a question.

“I have questions, I guess,” John admitted.

“Questions?” That brought about a cock of the dark-haired head.

“Yeah, but -” a pause for the hunt to find appropriate, manly words “- I feel odd for asking.”

“Odd?” Didn’t his flatmate hate repetition? Why was he copying what John said?

“Yeah. Right. OK.” A deep breath and then, “What we’re doing? It’s alright with you?”

“What we’re doing?” Now the repetition was annoying. “Do you mean driving to the Initiative to attend the birth of a baby we will be adopting together? Or moving your personal items into my room, now our room? Or are you thinking of engaging in sexual activity with me and becoming excited?”

“No. Yes.” John finally settled on asking, “Where do you see this going? And no,” as Sherlock opened his mouth to answer, “do not say ‘the Initiative’!”

“You are asking my intentions? My plans for the future? Where you will fit in?” There was a tiny smile that John was learning to recognize, that had nothing to do with innuendo. Bloody Holmeses. “I see us taking Siger home, getting used to a small creature in our lives. I see you becoming frustrated with me at times, and I with you. In a year I expect to institute proceedings for a second baby. We will be busy raising the children and solving puzzles together until it is no longer possible for us to chase down alleyways and climb up to rooftops. At which point I expect that we will retire to the country and -” a negligent wave of the hand from the steering wheel “- raise bees or something.”

“Bees,” John said, slightly stunned. Leaning back against the seat he stared at the fogging window. “So, I am not the chippy on the side in your marriage to the work?” he found himself asking.

A long suffering huff of a sigh exploded in the enclosed cabin of the automobile. “John, please stop throwing those words at me. The situation has changed.” The “Obviously” went unsaid. “We are having a baby. Our relationship has become sexual. You’re not a ‘chippy’, my ‘light o’ love’, my ‘bit on the side’, or any other euphemism you care to come up with.

“Think, John! Oh, not that paranoia you’ve just spent the last half hour repeating to convince yourself that you’ve made a mistake or a series of mistakes. Think about what you have given me. Would I value everything you are and what you do so little?”

Fierce, quietly passionate, those words sank into John, who gave Sherlock the sideways smile that came so automatically to him. The next question was, “Are you feeling that you are not valued, John Watson?”

John turned in his seat, hampered by the belt. “Overwhelmed. That’s how I’m feeling. My sentiment. Yeah. Am I up to the task? Not just being a father, Sherlock, but of being your partner? Those are your intentions, that we are now a couple? Am I up to the task of keeping up with Sherlock Holmes?”

“More than, I should think. If, after all, I’d be lost without my blogger, how much more lost would I be without my doctor, my friend, my partner?” That was asked quietly.

John had to ask in return. “But there’s the matter of trust. You don’t -” his own hands waved in the air “- trust me. Were you honestly jealous of those applicants? Did you really think that any of them could compare with you? With Sherlock Holmes, madman, puzzle solver, brilliant consulting detective with the gorgeous transport? Not one has a hope of comparison.”

“Irene Adler, John. Jim Moriarty.”

The short blond man gave a deep breath. “Both dead.”

“And if they were not?” A crystal of silence inside the car contrasted sharply with the downpour outside. “Irene is alive, by the way.”

“Sherlock.” John felt the shame of his lie after Irene’s death weigh him down. “When I told you Irene was in a Witness Protection program…”

Sherlock interrupted him, “Yes, yes. Mycroft told you she had died, executed by terrorists. You were to tell me, in all kindness, that she was in America. Do you remember when I was out of town about that time?”

Mouth dropping open, John puffed instead of spoke. Snapping his mouth shut with a click of teeth, the doctor shifted in the seat to face the even foggier windscreen. He pressed his lips together, wondering what, exactly, he should say to that. “Oh,” was all that he could manage.

Irene Bloody Adler was still alive. Any day now, Sherlock’s mobile was going to sound, and he’d hear that woman’s obscene ringtone. She’d ask something about dinner. “Yes,” he grated out. “I’m jealous of Irene Adler.”

A quiet moment, with those pale eyes scanning him, then Sherlock said, “I watched you ogle that Clairton woman’s breasts, John.” The statement was clipped and cold, though John could see by Sherlock’s face that the tone was more about control.

“Clairton?” John sounded his confusion. “Which one was she?”

“Our fourth interview,” Sherlock snapped.

John had to work to remember. “Oh. I remember her. I was trying to work out what was wrong with them. They were the oddest shaped breasts I had ever seen.”

“You thought they were odd.” Now Sherlock sounded confused.

“Yeah, huge, but, you know, a weird shape to them. It wasn’t normal.” John waved his hands in the air to indicate something the size of a football.

Sherlock pointed out, “She’d had a number of plastic surgeries done. Expanding her breasts was the simplest one to see.”

“What else had she done?” John asked in disbelief.

“Liposuction, a nose job, slicing at the bone to make her cheeks stand out more, she’d also had her back teeth removed -” the consulting detective was unable to resist “- among others.”

“And you thought I’d be interested in that?” John raised his eyebrows, but still stared out the front at the water sliding down the glass, rain on the outside, and condensation from their breathing inside. “Someone who wasn’t even a real person?” 

“I -” Sherlock stuttered. “You seemed so intent on them. And you never -” and he stopped.

John raised sand-coloured eyebrows. “Never what?”

Sherlock looked away from him. “You never initiate. Our sexual encounters. I’ve been apprehensive that you aren’t actually interested in my body. In spite of how much pleasure I bring you. You do prefer women. You were staring at her breasts, and I certainly can’t compete in that aspect.”

His lover gave a quiet curse, then said, “Sherlock, I was trying very hard not to stare at those bizarre breasts.” An impatient breath, then John pointed out, “Fifty seven text messages from Irene Adler, Sherlock.”

“Yes, I remember you counting them before.” Sherlock was staring. “I am not interested in Irene Adler as a lover, John. Nor Jim Moriarty.”

“Difficult to compete with a man whose Valentine is a gift wrapped in semtex,” John muttered. 

“I have a lover. His name is John Hamish Watson, and I expect to raise children with him, grow old together, hopefully not get shot together, and retire to the Sussex countryside with him.”

“Yeah,” John said. “To raise bees.”

“Negotiable,” Sherlock said seriously.

John finally turned to look at his tall, fascinating flatmate. “I have no problem with bees that I know of.”

That brought a smile, small, but evident. “Good to hear.”

John began to unbuckle his seat belt. The tall man in the driver’s seat watched him curiously. “John,” he asked, “what are you doing?”

“Initiating. I’m going to give us a damn good excuse for the fogged windows,” and the short, blond passenger clambered onto his knees facing his friend. He reached forward with his left hand to draw practiced fingers along those prominent cheekbones. “I’m more interested in the real thing, Sherlock. Not in anything artificially enhanced. Female, male. Doesn’t matter now, because I want you. And I’m in this for the long term. At least that’s what I told Greg about us. Okay?”

Those pale eyes were watchful as the dark head nodded. John slipped his fingers back and up into Sherlock’s soft dark hair. Leaning forward he met his partner in an ardent kiss that soon became consuming. When they broke for air he asked, “What do you read from me, oh famous consulting detective?”

No verbal response, but the graceful hands reached for him, pulling the doctor back to warm, smiling lips.

…

Arriving at the Initiative after dark, and an unplanned stop for dinner at an Inn by the wayside, they were greeted by Thomson. “Welcome John! Sherlock! You’ve missed fifteen births so far. It’s been rather busy!”

“Well, we didn’t expect to be here for all of them, Thomson,” John grinned. “That leaves forty-seven, and we’re just scheduled to attend six.”

“Yes, well, Dr. Morstan has asked to see you as soon as you arrived. I think she is not currently in the delivery rooms, and hasn’t gone to bed yet.” Thomson gestured to the guards accompanying him to take their bags. “Blessed, Abernathy, deliver their luggage.” The two men, looking more like accountants than guards, divested them of their belongings. Thomson turned back to his guests. “I’ll take you to her. She did say it was urgent.”

Dr. Morstan was resting in the cafeteria with a large, white ceramic mug of black coffee, laughing at a group of scrub-clad men and women at the long table who looked equally exhausted. The atmosphere in the facility had changed. To begin with, there was a feeling of excitement in the air, and had been since Sherlock had pulled the car into its designated spot. Even more, now it was not possible to tell doctors from midwives or nurses unless one knew who was which from before. The delineation that had been clear before was blurred now that the end work had begun.

“John!” Mary Morstan called across the wide, mostly empty space upon seeing them. “Sherlock! You made it! I thought we’d have to deliver all the babies without you!”

“Sherlock made sure we’d be on time for at least some of them, Mary!” John laughed.

“In spite of John’s delays,” Sherlock said in an elaborately disgruntled tone.

Dr. Morstan quietly excused herself to the table. Her colleagues waved her away tiredly. Taking John’s arm in her right and Sherlock’s in her left, the midwife thanked Thomson and drew her two captives into a smaller side room, filled with a round table and steel-and-plastic chairs. “Thomson said that you had an urgent matter to discuss?” Sherlock asked her she released them to sit down. 

“Damn! I forgot my coffee. No, no! Don’t worry about it. I’ve had too much already. It won’t stop me sleeping, but - unless you’d like some?” Mary grinned at them. “It’s good to see you both!”

There was reassurance that the two men were pleased to see her - John with enthusiasm, Sherlock with his normal reticence. Dr. Morstan ran a hand through her now short gray curls. “I don’t know how many of the surrogates you remember. I know you’re scheduled to attend six of the births. They were all due at the end of this weekend, and two of those surrogates have started labor. It may be that they’ll be delivering at the same time.”

There were nods to show that the doctor and the detective were attending to her words. Mary smiled at them and went on, “But one of the other surrogates has requested that you attend her delivery as well. Jeanette. She’s one of the dark-haired women from Dormitory D if that helps at all.”

Sherlock remembered. Oh, he didn’t know her name, but he looked at John. “I believe that is the flautist, John.”

John tilted his head, surprised. “Jeanette requested our presence?”

“More like invited you to share,” the midwife laughed. “You must have made an impression. I have the paperwork in the office if you’re interested. Everything is in order for the other births. The one that you’re interested in in particular isn’t in labor yet, so you will have at least one night of sleep.”

“Can we let you know about Jeanette after we discuss it?” John wanted to know.

Mary nodded. “Time for me to get to bed as well. My shift is over, and I’m due on again at half seven tomorrow morning. Everyone overlaps just in case there are unexpected bumps. 

“If any of the women you’re attending gets close to delivery tonight, one of the guards will knock you up. Otherwise we can look at things with a fresh eye tomorrow morning. Jack will be glad to see you too.” Looking at her watch she told them, “He’ll be asleep by now. Time to join him!”

Dr. Mary Morstan went off to her quarters, waving goodbye to the others still talking at the long table across the cafeteria before disappearing through the doorway to the Medical Quarters. John and Sherlock knew the route to their guest room via another hallway, and walked through darkened hallways set with the nighttime lights.

Reaching their usual room, Sherlock took immediate control. “Help me with the bed, John.” In fairly short order the twin beds were side by side, and the linens rearranged to create a full-sized accommodation. “I have no intention of us sleeping separately,” was all that was said.

“Gotten used to it, have you?” John said as he pulled his oatmeal jumper over his head.

An amused glance from Sherlock came as the still crisp - for all that John had done to it in the car - shirt was hung carefully on a hanger in the wardrobe. “I do it solely for your comfort, John.” The words came with a smirk. “I know how much you like to steal my blankets.” He went into the en suite bath to attend to pre-sleep ritual.

Looking about the room, then organizing their luggage - once again Sherlock had brought along the bulk of it - John thought he had made the limited, bland space their own. “Share. The word is ‘share’, Sherlock,” John said as he neatly divested himself of the rest of his apparel, stacking the folded garments on the standard chair before trading off with his bedmate on the taller man’s way out of the w.c. He could hear Sherlock messing about with the bedside table, and possibly John’s laptop, before the doctor came out of the tiny shower. Finally, climbing naked between the sheets, the short, blond man said, “I have something else to share with you tonight as well.” Holding up the top sheet for Sherlock to slide into bed, he went on, “Before we get too tired from medical activity.”

Sitting down on the bed, the tall, slender man reached a long arm to turn off the light before rolling over to settle down into his doctor’s arms. There were a few moments of affection before the shorter man instigated what turned into a lengthy, vigorous exercise for them both. 

Finally they settled down for sleep, taller spooned against shorter, Sherlock’s back to John’s front. John, his head resting against his lover’s shoulder heard a muted question in the darkness: “Dr. Watson, what are your intentions?” 

Sleepily, John smiled, knowing Sherlock would feel it against his naked back. “I,” he told his mad flatmate, “intend to be at your side for as long as you will have me there. I will have your back -” he pushed a little, groin against that curved backside “- in more ways than one. I will raise children with you, and bees, and hell. With you. Together.”

Feeling Sherlock’s body relax even further in his arms, John Watson fell asleep.


	36. Taking Initiative.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eventually those babies have to get born...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Contains graphic descriptions of childbirth.

The “creatively built” full-sized bed was not particularly comfortable. In spite of the innovative way that Sherlock had set up the linens, too much action tended to shift the twin beds apart. As with every other time they’d shared this room, and even when John had been here alone, the solidity of the mattress was along the lines of a rock outcropping. The industrial pillows were flat. Still, they could be rolled up to make a more solid neck support. The air vent was active constantly, with most of the Initiative being unmarked by windows, and the air smelled tinny and recycled. John and Sherlock slept soundly in spite of all of that. Of course, they’d not been “together” those times before. Sherlock’s use of John as a teddy bear, John's naturally radiant body, and the thermal blanket pulled tight around them, kept the constant flowing air from making them shiver.

Dr. Mary Morstan did knock them up at half six the next morning, meeting them at seven so that John could get the stimulant of the cafeteria’s very bad tea inside him. Well, not so much bad, as stewed. Mary promised them some better tea later, as Jack had brought her a packet when he’d arrived for the grand exercise of delivering sixty-three babies. John, of course, insisted that they both eat, then when his flatmate jittered in the plastic seat without ingesting anything, stuffed fruit in a small backpack for later. “He won’t eat now,” he confided in Mary, “but it’s possible I can slip him an orange and he’ll eat it without thinking. He’s not much for apples, so the oranges will have to do.” Best not to mention the association that apples had for Sherlock to anyone.

…

There is a vast difference between an intimate knowledge of female genitalia through intercourse, and watching a baby, an eight-pound living creature, squeeze its way through that narrow passage. The woman on the bed had John’s wrist in a death grip. Her other hand was being held by the midwife, who was murmuring, “Breathe” and “Count”. This was the team’s second birth today, and although Sherlock and John had not been present in the delivery room for the first, they’d been able to watch through the glass of an observation window rather than on a screen from the security cameras. John had insisted on a more distant visual examination after Sherlock kept asking questions during their presence at their first birth this morning, a tiny girl. He’d enraged that surrogate, who was not in the mood to explain much of anything after fifteen hours of back labor. John had been busy answering the increasingly involved technical questions during that second (for them) birth of another girl. Hopefully the discussion outside of an actual birthing would prevent any issues at this labor.

The doctor and midwife team seemed to be taking it in turns with the actual delivery. John was unclear as to whether this was due to a desire by the surrogate, or a unique partnership worked out between the two medical professionals. In any case, the midwife had delivered the first baby, and now the doctor was on a wheeled stool between this surrogate’s legs watching the crowning head push forward with a contraction. 

“Oh, gawd!” That was an adenoidal shout. “I feel like I’m passing a melon!”

John Watson knew better than to comment or involve himself in the woman’s difficulties. However, Sherlock, from his post behind the doctor, asked, “Are you feeling actual pain? Or is it more like an enormous pressure?”

The hold on John’s wrist loosened, then as another contraction hit, she grabbed him again, burgundy painted nails digging into the skin of his arm below the scrubs. “‘Course it hurts, you bloody idiot! Enormous pressure, my arse!”

“Keep yelling! Go ahead and shout!” the doctor urged.

“You know -” the woman in labor sounded surprised “- it really did help!”

John found he was laughing in spite of himself. It was that engaging giggle that brought a smile to Sherlock’s lips. The laboring surrogate started to laugh with a gasp: “Oh, oh! Don’t make me laugh, I can’t push!”

Sherlock, looking over the doctor’s shoulder, watched as the head finally escaped, sliding through in a mess of fluids, shoulders following, twisting first one, then the other pushing through. The consulting detective was practically vibrating through “the procedure” as he called it. These births at the Initiative were interesting and new to him, but not John’s first experience with birthing. 

John’s memory of his presence at that birth long ago surfaced with the delivery of the placenta, and the removal of this current baby, a boy with a close cap of black hair, to the nursery. The former army surgeon had a feeling of disassociation at the difference between that broken down shell of a house - with a local midwife, and the hot desert air - and the modern birthing room of the Initiative. The old woman delivering the Afghani baby under primitive conditions, dark and fierce-looking under a head scarf, white hair slipping out, had wrapped that squalling, red-faced newborn, also black-haired, up tightly with strong, competent, wrinkled hands. 

An evacuation of the small town had run into problems when a young girl had been in labor as the soldiers arrived. Delivery of the baby was not going to happen in the truck being used to transport the townspeople. Too crowded, not clean enough, and likely to make quite a chaotic mess of blood on the floor of the truck. John had stayed with the midwife and a squad of soldiers until the birth. The soldiers were pointedly looking everywhere except at the partially naked woman lying on a blanket and pushing out her first born son. Dusty, dry, the sound of the baby’s initial cries had echoed oddly between the partial walls. Laying the baby on the girl’s stomach to help deliver the afterbirth, the old Afghani woman had worked quickly, experienced. Soon enough the baby’s mouth was encouraged to feed at the breast of the child too young to be a mother, so far as John was concerned. 

None of the babies would be nursing here at the sparkling clean comforts of the Initiative. This room - state-of-the-art so far as delivering babies was concerned, blue paint on the walls, with a bed and rocking chair - was calming. The room looked more like a bedroom at home, rather than accommodations in a hospital. Each of the infants were to be removed to the nursery after delivery. The surrogates would be pumping the colostrum from their breasts immediately after the birth, to be fed to the babies by bottle. Bonding between the surrogates and the babies they’d carried was not going to be encouraged, unlike a mother seeking attachment.

John’s and Sherlock’s witnessing of the blessed event was done, when they were called to take part in the next, third of the six they were to attend. John commented to Sherlock that he hadn’t expected events to move quite so quickly. “Better for us if they do, John!” his flatmate pointed out. “Then we can take Siger and go home!”

It brought a snicker from the blond doctor. That laugh bred a smile on the brunette detective’s face.

...

They were up until late with that surrogate, and then hadn’t gotten to bed when the next came due. No sleep was to be had by either of them, not an issue with Sherlock. John hadn’t had quite so much hospital work since his service in the Middle East. He’d grown unused to it all, though the adrenaline helped. When the pair had taken breaks throughout the long night, it was into a ward bustling with activity, thronging with people. Quite a few of the pregnancies were coming to a close, and the medical staff, doctors, midwives, and nurses were hurrying in the rooms and hallways.

Finally there was a time to rest. Neither Jeanette, nor the two remaining surrogates carrying Harry’s eggs were showing any signs of labor. One of those two held Siger safe in her womb. 

…

Sherlock sought out Mary Morstan, fresh from a sleep period, in the cafeteria while John had remained to talk with the doctor-midwife pair from that delivery. Mary was sitting in the smaller conference room with the remains of a meal, and a mug of extremely dark coffee. “Well, Mr. Holmes?” Dr. Morstan grinned at the tall, underfed - in her opinion - civilian. “Are you finding things interesting here?”

“Moderately so,” Sherlock Holmes answered her, “considering how many members of the population undergo the experience daily. A good deal of effort. Effort that will be well worth it when we take Siger home with us.”

“If you think that observing is an effort for you, wait until you take care of a newborn baby, Sherlock,” laughed Mary.

Sherlock looked down his nose, not unkindly, more likely in thinking mode. “I will have John to assist. And I am not a complete fool, Dr. Morstan. We will manage. People do.”

Mary continued to laugh. “Well, at least you won’t be taking twins home.”

Sherlock looked directly at the midwife. “We do plan to have another child. Siblings are important in the development of a healthy, intelligent life. Not required, you understand, but significant.”

No surprise on Dr. Morstan’s face, but then, Sherlock thought, the woman was not an idiot. She asked, “You’re planning on _in vitro_ for that one as well, not adoption of a child in need of parents?”

“The child will be in need of parents,” Sherlock pointed out, “and will have them in John and me. This child being born at the Initiative was born from my sperm, and John’s sister as egg donor. His sibling, Siger’s brother or sister, will be John’s child.”

Mary nodded, her eyebrows raised. “Then you will need an egg donor, and a surrogate. When? In a year or two?”

“Yes.” Sherlock became silent, lost in thought.

They sat in silence for a while, Mary drinking the rest of her black coffee, thinking that the detective was agreeable in his refusal to clutter up a perfectly good quiet moment. Lately, quiet times had been few and far between at the Initiative. All too soon, Mary Morstan knew, this whole odd experiment would end, and it would be time to move on to another job. Perhaps it was time to head back to the United States with Jack, who was currently on shift in the nursery.

Then Sherlock spoke. “We do need a donor,” he repeated. The consulting detective leaned forward, his words precise, “We have an acquaintance. A woman we met during a case. This woman is physically fit, attractive, and extraordinarily intelligent. She managed to hack my phone and much up my ringtones in an embarrassing manner for months. Combining her genetics with John’s would be optimal. John, however, would never agree. ”

A voice rose from behind and Sherlock froze. It was unusually cold, that voice. “No. No, John would most certainly not agree.”

“John.” There was a scrambling as Sherlock stood, then worked to extricate himself from the hideous plastic chair. His lone thought was to pacify the only person who mattered. “I was discussing donors with Dr. Morstan.”

John Watson stood blocking the doorway in his green scrubs, and for all that he was significantly shorter than the tall, well-dressed detective, he gave off an immediate aura of rage that was overwhelming. He’d come to the cafeteria in search of food before finding sleep, seen Sherlock and Dr. Morstan, and thought to join them. Possibly he’d be able to get Sherlock to eat something as well. “I heard what you were discussing, Sherlock -” that calm, chill voice did not disguise the anger radiating from the doctor “- and I believe that I have the solution for your problem. The Woman can donate several of her - no doubt fabulously intelligent - eggs’ worth of DNA, and then you can provide the other half of the equation. I am sure the child that results will be both beautiful and a genius. A perfect choice for you.”

Sherlock dragged a hand through his already disordered hair and huffed in frustration, “That was not the point, John.”

“Oh, I think that is exactly the point,” said the doctor with a voice like ice. “I think that would solve every issue involved. I can think of only one other person whose intelligence would make the mix even better at breeding an intelligent being for you.” Sherlock paled at that, but John continued in a flat tone of voice, “And I think that I am going for a walk.” For all the hours they’d both been awake, the blond man moved very quickly as he exited the cafeteria conference room.

Silence dropped like a blanket over the room. Sherlock looked away from where John had stood to find Mary watching him. “Well?” The woman’s voice was not loud, but very clear. “What next?”

“I don’t know what to do next.” Sherlock’s voice sounded pathetic to his own ears.

“It looks -” that was said slowly “- as though you and John have some things to talk out.”

Looking away, Sherlock said, “Difficult to do when John hears, but does not listen.”

Mary raised her voice, just a bit: “Well, you listen first. Show him how to do it. But for God’s sake, don’t let him just go off like that.”

“Perhaps it’s best that he blows off some steam. John is not logical at the best of times.” There was hesitation in that baritone.

Dr. Morstan gave a sigh. “You know best,” she said. “He’s your partner. But if John works through intuition and emotion, reasoning with him from a logical base is not necessarily going to work.”

There was a moment without talking before Mary Morstan went on thoughtfully, “Unless you’re saying you think he’d hit you?”

That snapped Sherlock’s eyes back to her. “It’s hard enough to get him to hit me for a case. John Watson would not lay a hurtful hand on me otherwise.” A case. The case with The Woman, actually. What had Irene said then? “Somebody loves you! If I had to punch that face, I'd avoid the nose and teeth too.“ Best not to say that out loud, though.

“Sherlock,” Mary commanded, “go after John. Walk with him. Listen to him.”

A jerky nod of the head. A lost look, and then Sherlock walked slowly out of the small room. Pacing down the dull, boring, John-less hallways, he moved faster and faster until he arrived at the door of their quarters at a run. John was not there, nor was his wind-cheater. The scrubs lay tossed across the bed, which had been shoved out of true, the twin beds slightly apart from each other. He’d taken his oatmeal jumper, a pair of jeans, and a flannel button-down. Shoes unchanged - trainers - highly inappropriate for a slog outdoors in this weather. 

Sherlock left the room without changing his own clothes, stopping once before finding the guard post outside to ascertain which direction John Watson had gone. The heavy rain all this past week had made the ground a morass, even the well-trod path taken by his friend. It was not raining now, though the air was filled with moisture.

He found John sitting on a smooth chunk of granite, just on this side of the ridge. It looked remarkably similar to the place they’d found on their first trip to the Initiative. Not actually that space, though, which was fifty meters further on. John Watson looked muddy. Not covered with it, but the splash marks up his trouser legs were indicative of the brown clay soil on this range. 

Sherlock assumed that John had heard him coming up the path. Courtesy, his memory told him, demanded that he warn the man of his arrival. “John,” Sherlock called.

“Not a good time, Sherlock.” John did not shout, but Sherlock could hear him quite well.

“When will we have a better one?” Sherlock asked. No answer, so he went on, as obviously invited to continue. “You frequently tell me, John, that we need to discuss things freely concerning the children.”

John Watson turned his face away. “I wasn’t thinking that meant telling Mary Morstan that we should pretty up my substandard genetics with Irene...The Woman’s.”

“Really, John? Substandard? I consider your contribution to be paramount. I am simply looking for the best possibility to be coupled with you. Not to mend any imagined flaws in your own side of the equation. No one could possibly think you were not a good biological choice to father a child.”

“Mycroft,” John muttered, “doesn’t.”

Sherlock gave a low growl of frustration. “I don’t know where you get this from, John. Certainly not from me. I doubt it was from Mycroft. And then you bring up Moriarty.”

“Moriarty? Who brought up Moriarty?” John was confused.

“Listen,” Sherlock told himself. Why was John confused? Best to ask, or at least to clarify. Offering that he recounted, “You did. Before you left. You said that there was one person who would make the mix even better for me. A matter of intelligence. As though I were some mad scientist striving to build the super-human. I want your child, John, not an experiment.”

“Oh! I wasn’t thinking Moriarty.” A blasphemy from that familiar mouth, then: “There was something seriously wrong with Moriarty, and not because of the intelligence, Sherlock.” Just the thought of Moriarty made the short and solid man ill. 

“Who, then?” Sherlock’s question was childlike in his confusion.

“Mycroft, you silly bugger.” John couldn’t keep the exasperation and affection from his voice, no matter how angry he felt.

John had startled the genius. “Oh!” After Sherlock’s response they waited in silence for a while. Well, relative silence, since the drip of the earlier rain from the branches came at less than rhythmic intervals. 

Finally, the genius side of the flatmate pair decided that sitting in the damp on a rock in silence was quite enough. Turning, he looked at his drowned rat of a friend. “How,” Sherlock asked as he reached out and drew a finger through the short hair made dark by water, “did you get your hair wet?” 

John looked over the other man. From sole to crown there was not a mark to show Sherlock had been out of doors other than a little mud on his leather shoes. “Ran into a tree branch and got drenched. How the hell did you get up here without swimming through mud? It didn’t take you very long, either.” 

Sherlock shrugged. “I was in a hurry.” He spoke to the second part of John’s comment.

“What’s that you’re holding?” Not an umbrella, so John did not have to worry about Mycroft involvement.

“Tea,” Sherlock said simply, holding the thermos out in offering. His blond lover’s face twisted, and for a moment he thought John was going to cry.

Shaking himself like a great dog shuddering water from its pelt after a swim, John caught his friend’s eye and essayed a grin, albeit a feeble one. “Let’s have it, then!” If the tone was not completely steady, that could be blamed on the long night. Unscrewing the cap and pouring steaming tea into the cup, John looked down into the milky liquid silently. Taking a careful sip, the flavor of perfectly brewed milky tea washed over his tongue. “God,” John Watson said reverently, “this is perfect.”

The orange pekoe was unsweetened, with exactly the right amount of milk - not cream. It was in every way exactly how John preferred his tea. Another sip, the hot tea remarkable in the cool of the wet day. John offered the candy-red metallic cup to his flatmate. It was a moment before Sherlock accepted the drink. Gravely he took a sip, warming his fingers slightly on the heat of the cup before passing it back. He gave no sign that the tea was in any way not his preference. Sweetened tea, no milk, was his choice.

John took another mouthful of the just right tea that Sherlock Holmes had obtained for him. How? “Did you make this?” he asked softly.

“Yes,” was the equally soft reply. “Angela let me use the kitchens.”

“It’s good. Just right,” John offered, not asking who Angela was. Sherlock had a knack for knowing who could be useful.

The “Thank you” was followed by a tiny curving up in the corner of Sherlock’s expressive mouth.

A cough to clear his throat, then John said, “It was wrong. My reaction, it was wildly inappropriate.”

The careful way that Sherlock replied, “I understand that you have an irrational automatic response to The Woman’s name, or in actuality, any mention of her at all,” had evolved into so typical a Sherlock acknowledgement that John did not stop the giggle that surprised him. Sherlock’s shoulders relaxed incrementally. 

“Oh, God!” John’s giggle mutated into a chuckle. “I’m the one who made a scene at the Initiative. In front of Dr. Morstan, and who knows who else. I am such a jealous git!”

The curved corner of a smile grew. “My jealous git. But yes.”

“And instead of telling me off, you made me tea.” John’s voice was back to its warm tenor, and Sherlock felt a wave of relief and sentiment and pleasure on hearing the change.

“That does seem to be the case, John,” he replied.

“Alright. I’m over-tired, with low blood sugar, and sitting on cold stone in the damp. Bloody hell. Sherlock, I am sorry for the things I said.” John’s flatmate seemed to be holding something out to him. An orange. “Did you pick my pocket in the delivery room?” Amazement and amusement showed through.

“It should help with your low blood sugar, John. How you manage without me, I do not know.” It was said with a humorous twinkle and a wink.

Then, together, strewing peel along the way as they shared orange sections, the partners slipped and skidded back down the muddy path to the Initiative.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, Lunamoth116 for beta-ing!


	37. Labour rewarded.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An important birth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to Lunamoth116 for beta-ing!

Darkness. Fairly obviously easy to acquire in a room with no windows. Sherlock could only marvel at the sleeping weight in his arms. He knew that their recent exercise would have been what John defined as “lovemaking”. To Sherlock, it was the enormously gratifying physical dance of two partners who were suited for each other. Slow and thorough and built on feedback and response. Afterward, John had dropped immediately into - well, Sherlock would not call it the arms of Morpheus, he didn’t like the thought of John in anyone’s arms but his own - a good strong sleep cycle. 

Knowing that he was soon to follow, the detective could enjoy the muscle ache from their extended sexual encounter, the twitch of that deep space that John had breached, had touched on that pleasurable bit of nerve endings over and over, and in which the blond-haired man had spent his own enjoyment. John had learned quite a bit since the beginning of their sexual relationship. Sherlock enjoyed teaching, well, this type of teaching in any case. John could read Sherlock. To some extent at least. Better than so many others. And Sherlock?

Wrapping his arms and legs more tightly, possessively, around the sleeping doctor, Sherlock thought about his own inability to read John Watson clearly two percent of the time. Sentiment. It was sentiment that was interfering. Twice now was twice too many times. And this latest incident - when Sherlock’s own fears had inserted Jim Moriarty into the conversation in place of John’s intended reference to Mycroft - was truly disturbing. Obviously, a way would need to be found to work around this new blindness. They were partners, after all. John and he would find a way. Yes. So odd to be together with anyone. Meanwhile, John’s regular breathing was very soothing.

When John awoke, his mobile told him that about four hours had passed. Sherlock was still asleep. The long, leggy body on top of him, breathing steady and heavy, was familiar now. John didn’t need the light to know that those ridiculous curls would be flat around the relaxed face pressed into the pillow next to his own head. John could feel the tight tangle of limbs that kept them together. Both men were sprawlers, which made the nightly competition for supremacy in sleeping arrangements fierce. Of course, it wasn’t night, not yet. Late afternoon. Time to get up, soon anyway, and join whoever was not in the delivery suites for a meal. Sherlock had promised to play his violin afterwards for the women in Dormitory D. John looked forward to that.

Tomorrow, barring three women going into labor, the tall consulting detective and his blogger would be spending their time in the nursery wards with Dr. Jack Watson. Hopefully Jack wouldn’t be put off by Sherlock’s questions, and John expected to learn a good deal as well. Not that the former Royal Army surgeon planned on treating family members. One never planned to do so, after all. It was still good to have the background information. Couldn’t hurt his work at the locum practice either.

…

The next three days Sherlock “helped out” in the nursery. Births were going on all around them, but not one of the three that they were yet scheduled to attend. John was asked to assist in medical matters from time to time. He was willing. Sherlock was not interested in the births themselves. Seven births were enough for a sample. He was offering his experienced chemist’s hands to Jack Watson and the army of other pediatricians, nurses and technicians, and submerged himself into the care and feeding of almost fifty babies. Much of the time was spent holding the infants. The medical personnel sang nursery rhymes, pop songs. Sherlock spent his time telling these children of his about murder, mostly, and the adventures of Dr. Watson in trying to keep up with their biological father. Some of the time was passed playing his violin in the linked series of nurseries - seven in all, separated by huge oval portals, doubled hatches that could function as airlocks if necessary. The nurseries were walled on one side with windows, allowing bystanders to stand in the hallway and watch the staff working with the babies. The movement was constant - feeding, changing, holding and rocking the infants. Although medical personnel could be found watching from time to time, the majority of the audience turned out to be the maintenance workers and support staff, as well as the guards. This was the physical embodiment of The Initiative, and they were eager to see the results of their work together. The viewers tended to give the children names, regardless of policy, often descriptors of behaviour or hair color. Soon everyone had their favourites. Mr. Thomson called all of them, every one, “Sherlock, Jr.” and could be seen checking in on them from time to time.

The most labour intensive of the babies were the three sets of twins who were situated in the seventh room. Born first, early by a month, the twins were not separated from their biological other halves. (A month later, those twins were about the size and weight of the current newborns.) Sherlock found it an interesting thought that every one of these children were, in fact, siblings. They looked so different. Oh, not the twins; those were siblings from a split egg, and obviously looked largely identical. Hair colour among all of the infants ranged from white-blonde to caps of feathery black. Round, bald heads were there as well as brown and red. Not that it was easy to see the hair under tiny knit caps labeled with a numeric designation. Skin color tended toward the pale, so not much in the way of identifiable difference there.

In addition to that numerical designation, as the babies were to be named by their adoptive parents - the medical workers called them by endearments instead - they were sorted by biological mother. Harry’s four children, so far, were kept together. When Sherlock asked for reasons, he found that they were being examined and statistics recorded for no other reason than that one never knew when the information might come in handy. 

“Dr. Mustache Watson” gave Sherlock quite a bit of information on the Rumanian orphanage brain development discovery. The tall genius found it fascinating, and startled more than one medical professional by stating how the experiment could have been made to accelerate exploration into developing brain function. His statement had been theoretical, of course. And considering the chitchat from their original visit regarding human test subjects in China, Sherlock felt that there was no room for complaint from any of the doctors present. The midwives felt no issue with giving him a good talking-to, however.

In fact, several of them had set a trap for Sherlock with diapering the little boys. John was caught in it as well, for removing a diaper from a male infant can trigger a urination reflex. The medical staff knew how to avoid the stream of yellow liquid shooting with uncanny accuracy into the diapering attendant's face, but it was a skill that the new parents had yet to learn. When Sherlock commented that he thought they’d gotten it now, after three days of diapering babies, the little Pakistani nurse laughed at him and said, “Just you wait until it’s the middle of the night and you forget!”

Midwives and nurses found Sherlock quite amusing, once they decided that he was not being mocking in his persistent and often odd questioning. It had also not taken long before every woman and man in the facility received word that John and Sherlock were now together. A good many of the surrogates had been disappointed. Others had made money in the betting pool, to be paid once they reached the outside world and access to their accounts once again. The pinching of John’s butt stopped, and he was able to walk down the halls without fear once more.

John looked down the rows of babies in their plastic bins, rolling tables underneath to put the tiny human beings at waist height for ease of diapering and performing tests. Feeding went on for elongated periods, and to the doctor looking for signs of himself or his partner in the small faces as he bottle-fed them, it became a bit surreal. 

A bank of rocking chairs in each room that Sherlock called “the feeding area” - but the nursery staff named “the Dining Hall” - were comfortable at first, but after several hours of rocking, the solid wood under a flat pillow tended to give one a sore bum. John took his turns, and felt that he was getting the hang of preparing the bottles. Of course, when he was tired, he could drag Sherlock off to seek rest, leaving the care of these babies to whoever was on duty. Mary Morstan told them both, “Rest now. While you can. There won’t be regular rest for some time, once you get that baby home.”

Sherlock was at the nursery more often than John, though he always ensured that they were together for meals and sleep. If John was in surgery, assisting, he might look up to find the pale blue eyes fixed on him from the observation window, knowing it was time for food or bed. 

Jeanette went into labour before the surrogates carrying Harry’s last two. Surrogates were not encouraged in the nursery, although John pointed out that they’d be useful in the constant rounds of feeding and cleaning. Many of them were more than ready to be leaving, even stiff and sore after having given birth. The Initiative did not allow them to rest long, starting every woman on a program to restore lax musculature, and allow them to lose weight put on from carrying the babies. 

With Jeanette it was Sherlock who was holding her hand, speaking to her in French, providing a calming influence. He had brought cds of classical music, flautists mostly, to play in the delivery room. The dark-haired surrogate’s labour went on for twenty-four hours, though her delivery was fairly quick once the contractions became regular and got down to business. John - by that time everyone was used to him being active in the delivery room - assisted the midwife and doctor.

The dark-haired baby, with dark blue eyes of course, gave forth a screechy series of cries before deciding to look about for clues. “Did you hear what Jeanette said?” Sherlock asked John later, while they cleaned up.

“No,” John said. “I was a bit busy with the afterbirth. Besides, my French isn’t that good. What did she say?”

“ _Lorsque vous êtes prêt pour votre prochain enfant, vous me laissez le porter, oui?_ "

It took John a few moments to work his way through. “Oh!” he said, looking up with startled blue eyes, lighter and different from those of the babies. “She volunteered to be a surrogate if we do this again? Well, we’ll see how she feels about that next year, shall we?”

Tall, dark-haired Sherlock was practically jumping up and down. His body vibrating as he pointed out, “We have you, we have a surrogate, and now we just need a donor for the egg!”

Hand raised to stop his flatmate and bring sense back to the conversation, John said in his best responsible doctor voice, “Let’s get through having the first baby, shall we?”

And then came the first baby. Siger Hamish Holmes was born conveniently in the early afternoon, after a night of steady, but not too painful, labour. He had been a considerately gestating infant. John did not deliver him. He’d returned to his station at the surrogate’s side. Sherlock crowded behind the woman on the rolling stool, the midwife shaped like a cottage loaf, her bobbles of hair covered in the plastic cap that made all medical workers look so similar. Slipping fingers up and into the surrogate, the midwife glanced over to the doctor counting the prone woman’s breathing and said, “Stop. Don’t push. The cord is around the neck.” Briskly, her fingers disappeared into the body opening, gave a pull, and slipping the umbilical cord over the relatively large head the midwife grunted, “That’s got it. Okay, push, love!” The entrance bulged as the baby’s cranium began to move out with the contractions. The baby’s head crowned, the round surface looking slick and bloody before disappearing back into the passage.

Another contraction, a push, and the head was far enough through that the next contraction saw it fully delivered. Not a difficult task to bring through the shoulders, one after the other. Giving a small pull to finish removing the slimy, blood- and waxy vernix caseosa-covered body into the gravity that finally delivered him from captivity, the midwife caught Siger and held him up for both Sherlock and John to see, umbilical cord trailing down, and into the surrogate. Siger Hamish Holmes was born. Sherlock received the shears to cut the umbilical, and disappeared to the sideboard with the baby’s attendants to watch the cleaning of the eyes, the body, the Apgar test, and to hold his child for the first time. John kept watch as the surrogate was delivered of the afterbirth. Sherlock reappeared at his side, a cloth-wrapped bundle in his arms. It looked so small, though John knew their baby was an average size. 

John was given the bundle; not as though Sherlock was dropping a burden upon him, one that the detective didn’t want to be responsible for, but as though his partner was granting the doctor a gift, or presenting a prize. 

“Hello, Siger.” John smiled down into that small, round face. There was a cap of hair, and it was not the brown of Harry’s natural hair, nor the darkness of Sherlock’s. Siger was not even blond, like John. The dried hair was in tiny curls, what Harry had called “pin curls” when they were children. Curls of a bright red color. Red hair, redder even than Mycroft’s. Hard not to smile when looking down at that. 

The baby’s eyes, the blue of blueberries, were everywhere. Not on John though. “Welcome.” John smiled down, as the baby seemed to be examining the light fixtures over his blond father’s left shoulder. Turning, John found he was smiling so widely as to split his face. “Thank you!” he said to the surrogate, who gave him a tired grin in return.

“He’s beautiful,” Sherlock commented, before eagerly reaching to take the baby back.

Beautiful, good Apgar score considering, all his fingers and toes - as Sherlock surreptitiously checked - but there was a problem. Two problems, actually. A touch of jaundice, easily taken care of. And then, tachypnea. Wet lungs. Nothing to be worried about, they were assured. And the baby was whisked away to the special nursery, Sherlock following close on the technician’s heels.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Tachypnea - not life threatening. 1% of children have it. Mostly preemies, and children from C-sections, but vaginally delivered children can have it too. Just means the amniotic fluid didn’t get completely squeezed out during delivery, and there’s a little problem with regular breathing for a while. Not to worry.


	38. Hiccough

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to Lunamoth116, my beta-reader.

Soft lights gave the nursery rooms a bluish cast. The clear plastic bassinet boasted a sunny yellow plastic cone surrounding a light bulb above. The lamp, to treat the jaundice, looked out of place. The baby lying on the small mattress - sheeted in oddly-shaped duckling-printed flannel - seemed scrawny without the swaddling, and stretched out.

A disposable nappy secured round his nethers was accessorized with flat plastic bracelets secured round Siger’s tiny wrist. The bands of plastic were printed with his number and medical information. Someone had written “Siger Hamish Holmes” in permanent marker on a blank spot of the band. Female, nurse, and mother of three, Sherlock identified the culprit.

An intravenous line led to the metal stand to one side, where a partial bag of intravenous sugar solution still hung, connected to his son. There were sensors stuck to his chest; the white of the plastic circle attached to the wires contrasted sharply with the dark red of Siger’s skin. Only a slight yellow tinge remained from the jaundice.

A plastic dome providing oxygen covered the infant’s head, his neck threading through a cutout in the base. Siger was currently demanding something in a screeching treble. The tall, dark-haired man standing beside the bassinet was considering what the creature might be attempting to communicate. They were alone in the nursery, the seventh and - in the previous month - home to the three sets of twins. Those had been relocated to other quarters with their closer siblings. The sounds within the room were mostly the low murmur of electronics, and the twittering of the monitors attached to Siger to account for his heart and breathing.

Reaching out with a long careful finger, he stroked the baby’s arm, causing the information on the monitors to settle, to steady. “Siger,” the deep voice intoned, “Hamish Holmes.”

The dark blue eyes glided up and around as the baby tracked the sound of his name. 

“How is our boy?” John’s voice was sudden over his shoulder, and the doctor moved around to watch his partner, still softly stroking the infant’s arm.

“Watch the monitor,” he was directed, as the new _père_ lifted his hand away, out of the bassinet. The steadily pulsing monitor that tracked the baby’s breathing began to jump and skip. They watched, then Sherlock reached out again, his finger smoothing along a small leg now. The breath monitor’s line evened out.

“They won’t let me hold him,” the biological father informed his partner. 

John nodded, and though he was certain Sherlock had been informed of it, said, “The breathing has to be steady without interference. It can’t just be while you’re touching him. He’ll get through this, Sherlock. Siger will be alright.” The doctor ran a hand through his sand-coloured hair, looking about the last of the nurseries. Staff moved about in the other six, but this one was quiet, its attendant leaving it to the care of the consulting detective.

“Sherlock,” John asked quietly, as though he knew the answer, “how long have you been standing here?”

“Three hours and forty two minutes.” The reply was what John expected. Their voices were loud compared to the other communications going on - the machines speaking their codes of beeps and hums, the snuffle of sleeping babies, Siger’s occasional squeak of protest at a world that was loud and bright and not what the newborn was used to.

John had been called away three-and-a-half hours ago. No stool here, neither rolling nor otherwise. Of course his tall, idiotic detective had stood here. It was all just transport. He wanted to reach out and touch the man, hug him hard, but it wasn’t the way they were. Or had been. “Didn’t the nurses try to make you sit down?” It seemed the thing anyone in the healthcare industry would do. And the people here at the Initiative knew them now. It did make a difference in treatment, much as John wished he could say differently.

“What? Oh, I told them no. I can’t take Siger with me to the chairs He’s stuck with that -” words failed the brilliant man “- cake plate cover over his head. And those lines in his veins.” Sherlock’s irritation at the situation, at his inability to make things right, coloured his words, his stance. That irritation did not touch the gentle finger comforting the baby in the bassinette. “Do you think that having the surrogate do this would make a difference? His breathing is fine so long as I don’t stop.”

The shorter man slid his arms slowly around the tall, suit-clad man’s waist, pressing himself against his partner’s back, fitting his head to the back of that swanlike neck. “He has to be able to do it without us -” the title “love” had started to push past his lips, but he hurriedly changed it to “- Sherlock. Once his breathing straightens out, then the sugar water line won’t matter. We can hold him, and try to give him a bottle. He’s not starving, and he’s not in pain.”

“What is he thinking?” That was muttered as Sherlock relaxed from his initial startled freeze at the touch, back into John’s strong arms, against that sturdy body.

“Not sure.” John decided he liked this, breathing out a sigh as he took in how it felt to hold this incredible man, breathe in his scent of herbal shampoo and a hint of sweat. “You’re the expert on brain development in this relationship,” he added.

The deep rumble of response was a hum. “Most likely taking in impressions. You do realize we have an audience, John?”

No, no, John had not really thought about the glassed-in wall behind them. There had not been anyone in the passageway when he’d come in, but looking over his shoulder he could see a small clutch of giggling women. Yes, obviously giggling, though no sound passed through the glass. Surrogates, apparently, though with the constant female attendant as well. “What time is it?” he asked his partner.

“Half seven.” They had not moved away from each other. John elected to ignore the watchers, and turned his attention back to the man so slightly leaning over the baby. A flash of light came from the hallway, and John Watson sighed again, cheek pressed into Sherlock’s suit coat. “More photographs for the baby book?” suggested the tall, dark-haired idiot with whom he had willingly paired himself.

“Mmm,” responded the doctor. Then, as standing like that for any extended length of time was not particularly comfortable, John released his lover slowly, then moved around to stand beside him at the bassinet side. They were no longer touching, but John could feel the warmth of the sun lamp over Siger, the coolness where he had been holding Sherlock, and the presence of the man at his side. “Have you been talking to him?” he asked.

A shake of the head with the answer, “Not much. He does seem attentive, though, when you and I are conversing.”

“Tell him,” the doctor suggested, “about your pirate ship. And making Mycroft walk the plank.” He could feel the taller man turn to look at him directly.

“He won’t be understanding, John.” That was a question, more than a statement. Smiling, Sherlock’s eyes cut toward him.

John Watson said, “It’s a beginning. Your voice, telling Siger stories? Something he’ll need to get used to, won’t he?”

They were partway through a description of Sherlock hoisting his dog, Redbeard, up into a tree when Jack Watson arrived, followed by his wife, and carrying a covered basket. “How is he doing?” came out, bluff, good-natured, and entirely too used to nervous new parents.

“Asleep,” John pointed out, though he’d not stopped Sherlock from telling his story. “You’ll just have to tell it to him again,” was said reasonably, before, “and I was enjoying it.”

Mary was sitting on the tiled floor, an off-white speckled with dark red, putting out a tablecloth and pulling packets of food from the hamper. “I thought we’d make a picnic of it,” she said, “since I didn’t think we could make you leave Siger. Or leave the nursery, anyway. Come over here and sit down.” She eyed the rocking chairs and added, “I don’t believe it would be comfortable to eat on the rockers. I have no plans on bottle-feeding any of you.” That said with a saucy look at her husband.

John put a hand to Sherlock’s arm and tugged him toward the impromptu picnic. Raising an eyebrow at Mary, the blond doctor looked down at the floor in disapproval. “Oh, John,” Mary laughed at him. “I know. Hospital floors. Nasty infectious places. But they scrubbed the place down with disinfectant when they moved the twins out. Siger’s the only baby in here since, and nobody’s been over here. We’re feeding him through the line, after all. Sit!” She pulled cushions from the rocking chairs and dropped them next to the tablecloth.

The tile was cold, even with the flat rocking chair pillows, but allowed for a greater variety of sitting positions than the wooden rockers. There was cold roast chicken, a warm loaf of crusty bread, cheese in cubes, cut raw vegetables, and plastic-wrapped disposable cups for the bottle of white wine that Mary produced from the bottom of the basket. Sherlock was the only person responding to the flashes coming from the hallway as he cocked a wicked smile at the group beyond the window, and made a shooing motion with his hand. Privacy, of a sort, was granted, and the women took themselves off, no doubt to their own supper.

“You’re only going to be able to spend so much time in this room before you both go mad,” Mary said conversationally as she handed out plates of food.

John took a mouthful of dark meat, and had to force himself to chew thoroughly. He was hungry enough to bolt the food. Looking at Sherlock, who was popping cubes of cheese into his mouth, he felt a little better about tending to his own hunger. Jack poured out glasses of the wine. “Wine for a toast,” the American offered. Then when they’d all received the beverage, he raised the thin plastic glass: “To Siger. May he have a long and interesting life!”

They drank together. “Chinese interesting?” John asked. “Or Sherlock interesting?”

“They’re practically the same thing, aren’t they, John?” Mary said as she took a handful of carrot sticks.

“Chinese curse,” Jack offered when Sherlock looked up for clarification. “May you live in interesting times.”

That earned John a quick glance from Sherlock. “I believe John quite prefers those,” was his sole comment.

John grunted in affirmation around a mouthful of chicken. Watching the interaction between Jack and Mary, he wondered if he and Sherlock would be the same in as many years. Or similar, perhaps. What an odd thought.

The little picnic went on for some time, uninterrupted even by the nurse checking on Siger. She was integrated smoothly into the group as a verbal component, updating the baby’s information as she moved about her duties, refused food, and offered a story about newborn parents overreacting to a basic medical issue. Jack, Mary, and John found it more amusing than Sherlock. 

After Jack and Mary cleaned up the leftovers and packed the detritus into the hamper, they said their goodnights and left. 

“Will you stay with him, John?” Sherlock asked. “I need a few things from the room.”

John nodded agreement. Waiting until his flatmate had left the room, he looked back to Siger. Leaning down, he ran a very carefully cleaned finger against the baby’s cheek. “Hey there, Siger. You get that breathing under control. Otherwise, I think _père_ is going to be driven spare trying to figure out how to help you.

“You’ll like it when we can all go home to Baker Street. Mrs. Hudson is going to just eat you up. Not certain about your Uncle Mycroft. Mrs. Hudson thinks he’ll surprise me. We’ll see. More likely he’ll teach you how to manipulate the world stock markets before you’re eight.”

“Mycroft?” There was humor in Sherlock’s baritone. 

John jumped, knocking into the bassinet, though he didn’t wake up Siger. “Sherlock!” he exclaimed while examining the violin case under his partner’s arm. “You didn’t make it to our quarters and back in that short amount of time?”

“Oh, I had our rooms changed. We’re across the hall now. Single bed, but it’s hospital sized, so we should both fit. A much more comfortable rocker in there, more heavily cushioned.” That was cast out rapidfire. “I brought you your book.”

“Right.” John pulled the madman into his arms, difficult with the violin and book balanced sideways, and kissed him rather extensively. They spent the rest of the evening there, with Siger. Sherlock played his violin for quite some time, not moving to the other nurseries as he had in the past few days. John read, worked on his laptop, and listened to Siger’s father play and tell stories and watch the baby.


	39. Relativity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Siger leaves the nursery.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to my beta-reader, Lunamoth116!

Mary Morstan had bought them a gift. Sherlock stared at the gift-wrapped box and searched his mind for any clue as to what it could be. John was blathering out thanks to the woman and to her husband who had clearly had nothing to do with the purchase. John was good at that. Sherlock examined his doctor, from the sand-coloured hair sprinkled with gray, to the green scrubs he’d been wearing at the Institute more often than not, and the engaging grin on that solid, lived-in face. His doctor, his partner, and right now a portal, or communications hub between Sherlock and these acquaintances.

Siger was undergoing a physical examination in one of the exam rooms near the nurseries, and Sherlock suspected that the invitation from Jack and Mary was to distract him, to keep him from interfering with the checkup. If the review of Siger’s medical data recommended his release from the special nursery, then John and Sherlock would finally be able to take over care of their baby. And so, they were seated in one of the waiting lounges, a space made up to look like someone’s idea of a living area from the 1980s, possibly in masquerade of a parlour. John was sitting on one of the large, comfortably padded rocking armchairs, and having a bit of a problem sitting straight in it without sliding backwards. Sherlock perched on an ottoman at his side, and across from the married couple. Mary and Jack were seated on an industrial-looking couch, behind a plain coffee table that currently held Mary’s tea set. The promised tea was steeping, the familiar scent perfuming the room. Beside the homey ceramic teapot sat a plate of ginger digestives. Sherlock knew that John was partial to those. John was partial to just about any type of biscuit. Well, now to business. 

The box inside the wrap was of corrugated cardboard, approximately sixteen centimeters high, a meter long, and half a meter deep. Whatever it contained was solid enough, did not have the weight that books might, nor was it shifting within. A single item, then. Sherlock Holmes did not like being unable to decipher the contents of a gift. Then it occurred to him that the last time he’d tried to infer a gift from anyone other than John, Mrs. Hudson, or Mycroft had been Molly Hooper’s present for him at that ghastly Christmas party. Perhaps it would be best not to attempt to show off at the moment.

Looking up from under lowered brows, the self-proclaimed genius realized that the three of them were watching him: Dr. Mary Morstan and Dr. Jack mirrored each other. Marrieds often did that. John’s open face was, of course, amused. There was a smile, a fond one. That was good.

Dr. Morstan and Jack Watson looked confused, and also a bit excited. Oh. They were waiting for him to deduce, to give a performance, and were ready to be awed by his powers of observation. Hmmm. Sherlock gave them a charming smile - he did, after all, know how to do that - and said, “Thank you for thinking of us! John?” He handed the package to his partner. “Would you like to do the honors?”

Oh, he had not fooled John Watson one bit. John took the box gingerly and neatly slit the cello with his fingernail, unfolded the stiff pastel paper, then stripped off the packing tape holding the box closed. Folded within large pieces of coloured tissue paper was a large, quilted object. A sling. For holding the baby close to the body, obviously. The cloth was a vivid aubergine, which brought another smile to John’s lips, and a twinkle to those blue eyes. Lifting it from the box, John asked, “You will show us how to use it, Mary?”

“Of course!” Dr. Morstan’s own eyes were twinkling at them. “We’re looking forward to seeing you in it.”

…

Mycroft Holmes was accustomed to institutions. Walking briskly down the well-lit hallways of The Initiative was like passing along so many other corridors of memory. Of course he had not expected any communication from Sherlock notifying him of their progress here. To have received one from John Watson regarding the birth of Siger was par for the course.

An important and influential doctor led the way filled with explanations, and Mycroft was simply a nondescript member of the support staff following along in the wake of the oversight committee that he had set up, and of which John was a member. Mycroft generally did not do undercover. He did not like legwork, or getting his own hands literally messy. He did believe that getting them figuratively messy was often worse on the psyche than the alternative. Mycroft Holmes did not like wearing clothing that was “off the rack”, but a junior administrative assistant would not be wearing a three-piece suit, let alone tailored clothing. Anthea moved along, as anonymous as himself. There was so much to see, but for now it was best if Mycroft stayed with the crowd.

Of course, the first item of business for the Committee was to view the babies. They were presented with the enormous glass wall that pretended to be a window, and the first of his nephews and nieces. Mycroft blinked in surprise. He’d received reports, but had been unprepared for the variety in the infants before him. Even with all the genetic possibilities, many of these children were supposed to look like Sherlock. 

Mycroft overcame the urge to push his way through to the glass, claiming kinship was not in any of their best interests at this moment. Certainly not in his. When the gaggle moved off, very important people were leading the way, secure in the knowledge of their own importance, and unlikely to look back. Their flunkies carefully eyed one another in a need to keep watch for the casual backstab, but were generally mostly concerned with whomever they answered to, following the group. This left Mycroft behind, knowing that Anthea would keep up with the group, and he was able, at last, to move up to the glass and really examine the faces before him. To do this he had to look beyond his long-nosed reflection. 

Mycroft’s eyes tracked over the plastic bins displaying all of the children, data groups enumerated on those bracelets of flat plastic, every single infant related to him by virtue of a combination of his brother’s DNA with those of a variety of women. Was he searching for that small familiar face, head capped with dark curls? He saw several. 

The tall, auburn-haired gentleman wondered if any of these children looked as he had at birth. Of course he’d seen photographs of a small, squalling, red-faced creature, cap of straight red fluff barely covering a round red cranium. Infants’ heads did look so abnormally large compared to the rest of those defenceless bodies.

Babies. Mycroft had never had much use for them. Well, he’d been happy enough when Mummy had brought Sherlock home. Then it had been fascinating. First sight of the heavily wrapped bundle had put him in mind of a Christmas or birthday present. His mother, seated on the green brocade sofa, set before the fire in the salon, had motioned to Meredith. The servant had handed her new son down to her. “Come here, Mycroft darling -” her much-loved voice had been filled with excitement “- and say ‘hello’ to your little brother.”

Shawls were peeled away and handed to Meredith, who draped them over a uniformed arm, until all that was left was a red, wrinkled, scowling face under a close cap of tightly curled black hair. Amazing how some things never changed, as Sherlock was still scowling at Mycroft more often than not. 

So many faces. All Caucasian - of course, since that was the data set - but still a small variety of skin tones, even with the bright red of newborn skin. Some of the infants in the bassinets were older by a month, and some looked as though they had just arrived. Unexpectedly Mycroft felt the muscle memory of Sherlock’s tiny body in his arms, his mother’s voice in his ears, words unheard as he smiled down into that miniscule, but so important face. Those blue eyes had locked on his for a scant second before returning to scan the room. “Hello, brother dear,” he’d said, Sherlock’s eyes shifting back to him momentarily before becoming lost in the wonders of sound and sight around him. Mummy had told him the baby did not recognize any of them, but Mycroft knew that the sound of his voice from then on had called those eyes back to him. Which of these progeny would bear those heterochromatic eyes?

As the bureaucrat stood, watching the blooming field of babies, people came and went around and behind him. He was there for some time, moving down the row of windows to examine all of the residents, longer than he’d granted to anything so inconsequential in quite a while. One person, standing behind him to the right, did not leave - indeed, kept pace with him. Mycroft did not receive a feeling of expectation. It was not a matter of security waiting to escort him elsewhere. Turning, he met the gaze of bright blue eyes under sand-coloured eyebrows, blond hair mixed with silver-grey. 

“Dr. Watson,” he acknowledged the man beside him.

“Would you like to come in and meet the children, Mycroft?” The question came in a light, teasing tone that left the taller man studying the plain person his brother had chosen to share his life with.

A tight smile appeared grudgingly around the sentence, “I am surprised you did not refer to them as my nieces and nephews.”

That familiar Watson laugh became, “Well, of course, that was coming next. Come on, this way.” John Watson led him to a security entrance, ran his keycard through the slot, and moved back to allow the bureaucrat to step through into the nursery.

The smell was unexpected. Mycroft had subconsciously expected the visceral odor of blood in a hospital setting. That was, of course, the accustomed odor for one in his line of work. Here instead was the flavor of an ointment or salve, a bit of a background tang of urine, and as he moved about the room the smell of fouled diapers sealed in an obvious biomedical wastebin. That ointment - it was a familiar smell from countless babies presented to him in unblushing pride over the years. John Watson gave him a small amount of time to acclimatize before asking, “Which one do you want to hold first?”

Mycroft Holmes’s eyebrows lifted toward his receding hairline. “Hold?”

“Yeah.” John’s over-bright smile glittered at him as he said, “Sherlock’s held all but one of these.”

Cocking his head, Mycroft asked warily, “Which one has my dear brother neglected?”

“Not exactly neglected. He chose to spend his time with Siger once we got the baby off of that damned intravenous. This little beauty is the last of Harriet’s babies.” Mycroft observed the silent communication between the short doctor and the nurse guarding the nursery treasure like a small brown dragon in a brightly floral hijab. She allowed them privacy, moving to check information on a computer cart. The rooms on either side were filled, he had noticed, with staff feeding and changing infants. This quantity of children was in sleep mode, possibly next to receive bottles and nappies.

John picked up a tiny, very wrinkled infant whose feathery red hair stuck up like an absurd crest. “She was just born, two hours ago. Sherlock hasn’t seen her yet.” The former army doctor, one hand supporting that tiny neck, told him, “Take off your jacket. You don’t want her spitting up on it.”

Divested of suit jacket, case, and umbrella, hands swabbed with an alcohol-based disinfectant, Mycroft had an instant of vertigo as the blond man in scrubs placed that miniature human being in his crisply-sleeved arms. “How very...” What did one honestly say when holding such an odd amalgam of confluences? There were so many false statements that were used to placate the unaware. Somehow, this occasion did not call for falsity. Mycroft settled for “...small.”

John carefully hung the suit coat (that probably cost more than his entire wardrobe) on the back of one of the rocking chairs. The doctor turned to examine his partner’s brother, a man who could move mountains through influence. To John’s surprise the man held that pocket-sized life easily, with familiarity. In response to the look, Mycroft informed him smugly, “I did help with Sherlock. You knew that, John.”

“It has been quite a while since he was a baby, Mycroft,” John pointed out.

Mycroft gave a wave of his free scholarly hand. “Skills, muscle memory,” he stated, “tend to come back, don’t they?” That brought a laugh from the doctor, who motioned for the taller man to approach the five bassinets in that group, four of them filled.

“These are the Harriet babies,” John introduced them. “Say hello to Uncle Mycroft.”

“John!” Mycroft looked around to ensure that there were no listening ears.

John laughed again. “Nobody in this room except for Johanni -” a nod toward the oblivious nurse “- and she has her earbuds in. And I’m sure you can get hold of the tape from Thomson. He’s one of yours isn’t he?”

Mycroft was somewhat mollified as he looked down into the containers holding three small bits of life with vivid red hair, and one solitary brunette. The only one awake at this moment was the baby in his arms. He gave no indication that John’s surmise was accurate. His back to the doctor, and - so far as he knew - to the security cameras, the man whose brother called him The British Government smiled down into the blue eyes of the baby in his arms.

…

John Watson found himself watching a busy Mycroft Holmes. Not just as the taller, controlled man looked at the small bits of life in those bassinets, carrying that youngest one with experience. John watched as the spymaster, diplomat, bureaucrat, call him what you will, was drawn into helping with the infants. Because of course - as the babies here had started to wake up for feeding - Johanni, without asking, placed a baby in John’s arms, and handed him a bottle of formula. Mycroft, rolling up his sleeves, had offered assistance in a tone that John might have mistaken for sarcasm, once. Johanni gave John a look, as though asking for permission before taking advantage of the offer.

John watched Mycroft settle the tiny baby in his arms with a practised hand, then offer the bottle, tapping at the baby’s bottom lip with the nipple, a bit of warm milk shining the tip. “You have done this before. I mean, recently.”

“Dolores Camford’s granddaughter. It seemed the intelligent thing to do, take over feeding the baby while the tedious conversation flowed around me.” Mycroft made no apologies. He did know his way around a baby bottle. “What is this?” he asked. “It does not seem to be formula.”

“Colostrum,” John Watson replied as he flipped his own charge up to burp against the flannel cloth-covered shoulder before going on, “The surrogates pump that first bit of milk, the colostrum. After that, they’re encouraged to allow themselves to dry up. But each infant gets that colostrum, if no other mother’s milk. Rich in antibodies and all that.”

Dolores? Where had John heard the name before? Aha. “Would that be Dolores Lestrade Camford?” he asked in as neutral a voice as possible.

“Ah, you have discovered my secret, John.” Mycroft looked up in surprise as Johanni traded another baby for the infant he’d just fed. “How long have you known?”

John concentrated on the dark-haired beauty in his arms. “About a month ago. Greg and I had a chat about it after I figured it out.”

“Greg does so like to chat at the pub,” Mycroft remarked. John’s response was a smirk. Mycroft changed the conversation by telling about a visit to a pub in Ireland. It had nothing to do with Greg Lestrade, Sherlock, or anything else, but it was quite funny, ending with Mycroft being rescued from an overly amorous local widow of rubenesque proportions by a cab driver so short as to be almost a midget. John had never found Mycroft funny before. He shared an adventure from a leave during his days in Afghanistan, and the talk strayed to many places and situations far from London, the Initiative, or the madman they both had in common.

...

The sling, which Mary had assured them was a Babybjörn, engulfed the seven-pound baby. Sherlock had experimented, in a good way as he would no doubt reassure John later, on the best way to cradle Siger within the cloth sling. So far he and his son had been to the cafeteria, to see Jack Watson, as Mary was occupied in a delivery suite, and along to check out security tape with Mr. Thomson. The tall detective had fed the baby twice, elicited an appropriate amount of eructation, and changed two of the plastic and paper disposable nappies. 

Siger was asleep again. Sherlock found himself returning to the new room, ensconced himself in the rocker, and stepped into his mind palace while waiting for his son - and those words were used with an enormous sense of self-importance - to wake up and demand his next bottle. The space he used for Siger’s memories was filled with sunshine, large windows overlooking a pond and a carefully tended green sward. 

Reliving that moment when he was able to hold the baby early this morning - carefully, to avoid tangling the intravenous lines - Sherlock wondered when he should start teaching the baby to build his own mind palace. Sherlock did still have rooms of his original building, with Mycroft’s initial assistance, but those were far away, and not often accessed. Leaning down, the man pressed his lips to the soft, feathery light hair of Siger Holmes. He would not be able to take all of his children home. That was obvious. Though he had helped tend them to this point. They all had a small space, so far, in the palace. But Siger’s was filling up fast, and might need renovation sooner rather than later.

This was where Mycroft and John found the pair after Sherlock’s brother had reached the limit of time he could manage with small creatures that had less of a response to him than goldfish. Goldfish could, after all, swim about. The babies could not. They could feed, burp, and eliminate, all the while staring about unfocused with mouths opening and closing. Possibly they could make noise, though the children he handled seemed to have the sense not to cry. 

Sharing tales with John had a positive effect on their relationship, but after a while Mycroft needed to change his situation or location. And of course, he required Anthea’s observations about the Committee. Time to move away from the nursery, and also time to meet the nephew that would remain a part of his life after the current aspects of the Initiative closed down.


	40. Familiarity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ah, family get togethers...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for the comments on the last chapter!
> 
> And especially thank you to my beta-reader, Lunamoth116!

Sherlock Holmes, father. Looking down at the odd, tiny creature nestled in the baby sling, the detective felt a moment of panic. Not the icy, all-encompassing fear he had experienced at Baskerville, but a sudden clenching in his belly at the enormity of his lack of control over this entire situation. This baby was his. Such a fragile creature, so easily destroyed, both physically and emotionally. Sherlock could think of four hundred and twenty-seven ways in the first thirty seconds. He did not see any resemblance to himself in this child, nor to John.

Planning was one thing. Implementation was another experience entirely. There had been the crying, of course. Sherlock had expected that. The piercing quality of the noise had been unexpected. Possibly his biology was fine-tuned to react in specific ways to the sound. If he reacted thus, how much worse the reaction must be for a woman who had recently given birth. All those chemical components in the blood interfering would be hateful.

The nurses had offered - standard procedure, apparently - to take Siger for the night to let Sherlock and John “rest”. Sherlock had refused. Moderately politely for John’s sake, of course. In any event, Sherlock had been unable to sleep.

The baby moved. Siger made odd noises in the night, unexpectedly. There was a monitor to discover if he had sleep apnea, or any other breathing issue. Sherlock found himself listening to the infant’s breathing, counting to ensure regularity. John snoring beside him, that Sherlock was now used to. The baby woke John as well, who was not displaying his normal sleep patterns. John was dealing with that.

And of course, Sherlock found himself unwilling to engage in sexual behaviors, beyond brief kisses, in front of Siger. This was tedious and against his plans. There should be no reason why he and John could not partake of sex when the baby was in the room, at least for several months. Except that each time Sherlock felt the slightest bit of interest, the baby, like some form of alarm triggered by the event, started to fuss.

It was not that John had ceded all care of the child to his partner either. John took the baby, cared for him, and advised his “personal madman” - as John was calling him - to get some rest, or stretch his legs. They took the baby with them when the pair were invited to meals, or chose to eat in the cafeteria. It was not that Sherlock was alone in this endeavour. He just could not stop thinking. His mind was running round and round the garden like a teddy bear. And why did that inane nursery rhyme keep coming back to haunt him?

Currently their room was dark. Sherlock was lying on his side listening to the breathing of the baby in the plastic bassinet. John was curled around his back, his own breathing quiet against Sherlock’s shoulders. Both men were quite awake.

John could feel Sherlock’s tension, that long, lean body tight in the doctor’s arms. John lay on the pillow, thinking. It had been a mistake to take on complete care of the baby immediately. The good Lord only knew how a woman who had other children, a household, no husband, and a job managed. John was well aware that he and Sherlock had it comparatively easy. John had also gotten used to a certain measure of sex, and that measure was not being met at this point in time. Resignedly, he’d agreed to this, knowing that Sherlock might react differently under stress. At least so far as his libido was concerned. It had only been two days after all. 

“Come on, Watson. You’ve gone far longer without,” he told himself. That didn’t help. Especially since John was aware that he could get his partner started. Sensitive follicles, Sherlock had called it. All John had to do was run his fingers through those dark curls, and it was pretty much a guarantee that particular hunger would be piqued. John wasn’t enough of a bastard, though, to push it. He’d indicated interest, and Sherlock had not been…willing. And there it stopped. 

John had to get up early and present to the committee in the morning. Therefore, sleep was an imperative. With experience in grabbing what fragments he could, the doctor shut his eyes, calmed breathing, and allowed himself to sink into the darkness.

...

Mycroft Holmes watched the rounds of presentations, discussions, and decision making - well, what little of that there was for the committee - even when he was not physically present in his guise of subordinate. Mr. Thomson had set up an office in an area rarely accessed by any of his security operatives. No one else was able to enter.

Listening now to the only partially familiar voice of John H. Watson as he presented his findings to the board of very important ministers and physicians was different from hearing the doctor in his self-assumed role of Sherlock’s “minder”. The suit was off-the-rack, of course, but conveyed authority, accented by a silk tie that had obviously been a present from Mycroft’s dear brother. The shirt and trousers were crisply starched and ironed. Socks, shoes, and belt were plain, but carefully chosen. Clothes, at times, make the man, and the short, unobtrusive man was clearly a force to be reckoned with in this appearance. The former RAMC surgeon’s tone was authoritative as well. Reporting on the welfare of the surrogates, the man was succinct, which Mycroft valued, and spot-on with regard to what the committee wanted to know. The man was far less unassuming when speaking as a medical professional. It was an entirely different aspect to any that Mycroft had previously seen. 

Later on, John’s questions and comments had been few. They were, however, exactly what was needed to keep the committee on task. John Watson was the only member of the Committee who had any idea of whom Mycroft was. Clearly, Sherlock’s partner had planned his presentation to the letter, practiced it, and was watching his words very carefully. Really, Mycroft was quite pleased he had thought to involve John in this affair. Sherlock, however, looked fagged out, to use a colloquialism. 

When Mycroft Holmes first laid eyes on Siger Hamish Holmes, it was to see a very little tuft of red hair sticking up and out of a clashing purple quilted sling. Red hair, brighter even than his own, Mycroft thought with surprise. His face did not reflect that emotion.

“I suppose you are here to meet our son.” Sherlock’s mocking baritone had contrasted sharply with Mycroft’s own contained tenor. Those golden green and blue eyes sparked with excitement at the elder brother, then turned down to the baby being revealed as those elegant hands drew aside the quilting of the sling.

Well, it was a baby. Much like the babies in the clear plastic bassinets he had so recently viewed in the nurseries, and had helped feed during his time there. The red hair, now that Mycroft could see the head clearly, was in curls tight to the head. The tiny bit of humanity yawned, making a noise a bit like a cat. 

Nearby was Sherlock’s laptop, on which it was evident he was keeping track of every absurd scrap of information available on Siger. A flat plastic band around Sherlock’s own thin wrist matched the bit identifying the baby. John had no such band, and had explained to Mycroft that only the parent with the matching I.D. was able to remove the child from the nursery. 

Throughout the week Mycroft drifted in and out. Visiting, then disappearing to wherever he was working in the interim. Anthea had appeared twice. John and Sherlock discussed whether or not she had actually seen the baby. The PA had not lifted her gaze from the BlackBerry in her hands once.

Then came the day Mycroft arrived wearing a duplicate of Sherlock’s and Siger’s security bracelets. “Time,” he’d said, “for you and John to spend some private time together. I will watch my nephew.” Sherlock had been rendered speechless.

Now Mycroft sat in the monstrously uncomfortable chair behind the industrial metal and plastic wood desk looking as though it was of no great inconvenience to him. The monitor he watched stood on its single leg, and measured twenty-seven inches diagonally. Siger gurgled in the sling around his body, moving just enough that Mycroft was unable to forget the baby was present. A tiny hand freed itself of the quilted purple and banged a fist against the mother-of-pearl buttons of the man’s shirt. 

“Shall I tell you a story about your father, Siger?” That was said absentmindedly as the man worked. “Well, one day he discovered a wasps nest in the branches of his pirate ship, _The Emeraldas_ -” fingers continued typing without a pause “- Sherlock was mad to discover the differences between the wasp colony and the honeybee hives that the gardener had set up in the orchard. Palmer encouraged Sherlock’s interest in the bees. The old man preferred that to stolen fruits in varying stages of ripeness causing nasty bouts of indigestion. Palmer also kept a sharp watch on us boys when we played in the orchard or the garden. It was not, however, his job to monitor our activity in the front yard. Which is where the enormous oak tree that housed _The Emeraldas_ grew.

“Your father knew that Palmer used a smoke device to lull the bees, to put them to sleep. Determining that he would not be able to steal one of Palmer’s, for the gardener knew Sherlock all too well, my dear brother -” Mycroft switched to another window and read silently for a moment before returning to the story “- decided instead to ‘borrow’ the old man’s tobacco pipe and a packet of tobacco. If he directed the smoke from the pipe into the mouth of the nest, it should put them to sleep. Or so he thought.”

There was a gurgle, almost in reply. Looking down to where blue eyes stared up at him, or rather, Mycroft thought, toward the sound of his voice, Mycroft gave Siger a genuine smile. “Your father tends to rush into things sometimes,” he said directly to his nephew. “In any case, Sherlock did have a piece of rubber hose in his ship stores, and planned to use that to siphon the tobacco smoke into the hole that formed the nest entrance. What he did not take into account was that Palmer smoked a vile variant of ship’s weed that he’d gotten used to in the Royal Navy. It made your father, who was only seven at the time, quite ill. So dizzy was your father, that he dropped the hose out of the tree, and almost followed the twenty feet after it.”

More typing now, but a slightly smug smile remained on Mycroft’s face. “The wasps were not best pleased, as you can imagine. Still, he escaped with relatively few stings by hiding under an old piece of canvas that he’d been planning to use as a sail. Unfortunately he took the pipe with him, not wishing to break or lose Palmer’s property. It was still lit. The smoke from the pipe filled the space under the canvas, which probably kept some more of the wasps away as well. Sherlock was so sick from the smoke that he came into the house afterwards looking half-dead.

“He’d the idea that he’d wash the smell of tobacco smoke away in the pond. It worked about as well as you might imagine, which meant that he showed up tracking mud from the verges of the pond into the clean front hall, stinking of Ships, and looking green as death warmed over.” 

Mycroft began to laugh, picturing his dear brother out of memory. “Worst thing for Sherlock is that Redbeard would not come near him. That dog ran upstairs and hid under his master’s bed. Sherlock followed him leaving a trail a blind man could see of mud and bits of twig and leaves, and trailing pipe smoke from Palmer’s pipe, which was still not completely out.

“He found me in my room, studying at grandfather’s old rolltop desk. Scared me nigh to death, but I got to him, put the pipe out, pulled the stingers from his wounds, and got him to the toilet before he vomited. He was so dizzy from the smoke that he could barely stand up, yet insisted he was fine, that he could wash himself without my assistance. In the end he took a shower sitting on the floor of our shared bathtub rather than trying to stand up. It as a huge old Victorian monster that Sherlock was small enough to swim in when it was filled.”

Mycroft looked at the time and switched to another application. “I returned the pipe to Mr. Palmer, who assumed I had taken it for a youthful experiment in forbidden pleasures. Sherlock was relatively quiet for the sum total of forty-eight hours before he returned to his normal Elephant’s Child self.”

A window opened on the screen showing a familiar face against the backdrop of a New Scotland Yard office. “Ah, Greg. How has your day gone?”

“Alright so far.” The detective inspector looked tired, but smiled at him through the screen. “I got a lot of paperwork finished from the cold cases I told you about. How are things going at the Mad Science Experiment?”

“Very well so far.” Mycroft felt some satisfaction in that. No horrendously unexpected issues on this end. “I am holding my new nephew, Siger,” he commented.

“In that fashion accessory you’ve got over your shoulder?” Greg Lestrade raised an eyebrow. “Going to give us a peek?”

The small, warm smile returned. “Not today. I believe that my dear brother is looking forward to a grand unveiling when he returns to Baker Street. I have been regaling young Siger with tales of youthful transgressions.”

“Yours or Sherlock’s?” asked Greg with an enormous grin.

“Oh, Sherlock’s of course! I’m sure that any transgressions of mine will pale in comparison.” Mycroft Holmes’s face was a picture of smugness.

Greg rolled his eyes. “Not so sure of that, myself. And Lord knows I’d like to hear about your version of a youthful transgression.”

“All in due time,” Mycroft told him. “There are sixty-one children in those nurseries. Sixty if you are not counting Siger, who has been residing with Sherlock and John in their quarters.”

“Why do you have him, then?” 

Mycroft stretched, causing Siger to squeak that treble of a complaint, a tiny hand flailing up and visible for just a second above the quilted sling. “Sherlock and John needed some time to reconnect.”

“Good old Uncle Mycroft, then,” the silver-haired inspector snorted. “So will this be a regular thing? You babysitting?”

“From time to time.” Mycroft smiled down at the red face tucked in the sling, before looking back to Greg with a spark in his eye. “But not enough to become an inconvenience.”

“So, sixty some other babies?” Greg asked. “What’s going to happen to the rest of them?”

“Two women have yet to go into labor,” Mycroft corrected. “And I will keep track of every one of the children. They’re being placed with most of their families at the end of this month. All vetted, and we’ll keep tracking the boys and girls as they grow up. Wouldn’t want to lose sight of them. They are, after all, blood-related.”

Greg Lestrade whistled. “That’s going to be some undertaking. Have you decided to bring any home with you?”

Mycroft Holmes hesitated before answering. Greg’s eyes narrowed, as the police officer tried to read the bureaucrat through the screen. “I am not ready,” Mycroft began slowly, “to bring a child into my life at this time. However...” Another pause. “It might happen that I would entertain the thought of having one of my own. Someday. Odd, as I have never really entertained the thought of a family before.”

Greg nodded. “Have you said anything like that to your brother?”

“No.” The thin lips creased as though tasting something sour. “I can imagine the comments he would make. John might have some idea though.”

“Well,” it came out thoughtfully. “Regardless of what your brother would say, I think you’d manage fairly well. As a father. Lord knows I’d always planned for children. Karen wouldn’t hear of it. I learned why afterwards.”

It was Mycroft’s turn to nod. “One cannot maintain affairs when attention is focused on the quality of childcare being given.”

“Yeah, too much trouble is the way she put it.” Greg’s self-deprecating smile was still sad, but was evidence that the man had healed since his divorce. Mycroft found it a good sign. Greg was continuing, “Dolores was always on her about us having kids. Her three girls are a joy, and now with the new grandson arrived…”

“I had forgotten, was one of your nieces looking to adopt?” Mycroft’s ideas frequently came together out of bits and pieces. Lestrade’s family had been thoroughly researched, and he knew the family had the money to bring up a child, let alone for the expensive process of adoption. The barren niece was a marketing consultant, and her husband a legal advocate.

“Yeah, probably from another country. Easier to count on keeping the child that way,” Greg responded. “Why? Do you have some to spare?” That was said with a laugh.

“Ask her...” What was the name? He looked through his mind palace. “Call, and ask Deborah and David if they would be interested in twins. From a good family, but needing immediate placement.” Mycroft began to type quickly, the flow of information, of steps needing to be taken, of questions to be asked flying from the moving fingertips.

Greg Lestrade watched the face on the screen before him settle into that bland mask that was Mycroft Holmes at work. He’d seen so many expressions on that face, some of which he’d put there - and weren’t those a warm and pleasing memory. Others, less pleasant, that his brother had brought about. It never failed to amaze the detective that this gifted man chose to spend his limited free time with Greg.

There was a knock on his office door. “Just a moment,” Greg called before saying, “Mycroft, I have to go. I’ll ask Deb and Dave and get back to you. Are we still on for -” but he was answered before he finished the sentence.

“For Friday? Yes, of course. I’ll see you then!” Mycroft Holmes brought his attention back to Greg’s face. “I am looking forward to seeing you.”

That grin, so engaging, was well worth any price. Greg Lestrade blew a kiss before signing off. Warming to the heart, and not at all something that Mycroft Holmes was prone to doing. But now, Greg was gone, leaving Mycroft to finish his typing. It did take some time. Pausing at last, the elder Holmes looked down to where Siger was now asleep in the warmth of the sling against the man’s stomach. “Well, Siger,” his uncle told the infant, “we can’t take all of your brothers and sisters. But we might be able to keep some of them.”


	41. Divertimento

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finishing up at the Initiative.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to Lunamoth116 for beta-reading.

Mycroft Holmes signed off from his discussion with the detective inspector. Siger was still asleep, but Mycroft did not expect that to last. Oddly, looking down at the baby snuggled against him, the bureaucrat was reminded of John, of what Mycroft had told John when they’d been examining the garden of children laid out in the nurseries before them. “John, what good would it do for me to ‘invest time in these children’ as you say? They will remember nothing. Nothing I do will have any effect.”

There had come that engaging grin, an invitation for which John was infamous. “Mycroft,” John lectured him, “if you truly do not see the impact your influence has made upon these babies, you are not looking in the right direction.”

Mycroft remembered looking carefully at the combinations of his brother and Harriet Watson in their little plastic boxes. Their lives would be different, but not singular. And certainly they would not become psychotic assassins working to follow Moriarty’s insane plan. Nor would they be sold to the highest bidding family. A snort, inelegant, from the elder Holmes, then: “Your point is made, John.”

“Good!” And the shorter, blond man had drawn the taller, auburn bureaucrat with him back to the row of padded, wooden rocking chairs that looked singularly uncomfortable behind them. 

And now? Now Mycroft was sitting in an equally uncomfortable mass-produced chair of questionable fashion holding a tiny person who had changed his brother’s life. John had been there for Sherlock, of course, ever since they’d become flatmates. But would their partnership have shifted if not for this infant? How many more changes would Siger bring about?

The question reminded the British Government to do a quick check on his brother. Skipping through security images he found them wandering down a hallway, their bodies aligned. His brother looked much more relaxed than when Mycroft had come to pick up his nephew. He knew they’d been out of doors. Surely they hadn’t…no. No, Sherlock’s head had turned to scan the busy area, and then his blasted brother was pulling John into a often used janitor’s closet near the cafeteria.

Mycroft shut down the window holding the security scans and sighed. It was echoed, startling the man into looking down to the two bright blue eyes of the very awake Siger.

…

Sherlock stood staring at Mycroft, whose arm was encircled by an identification band matching Sherlock's and Siger’s. John and Mycroft watched the stock still detective for a bit. That paled, though. Mycroft took out his mobile and began to type. 

John found himself looking from one dysfunctional Holmes to another. He bent over the horrible plastic bin and, smiling, picked up his son. He was aware that Sherlock’s pale eyes had tracked him, but returned to his brother as John began to cuddle the baby. The infant snuffled and turned his head to root for a ready nipple and milk-filled breast that Siger was never going to find on John Watson. For a moment John wondered what his partner would do if John shouted “Bored!” now? “Yeah?” he asked the baby. 

Not that John was bored. With Siger in one arm, the shortest man in the room packed up the diaper bag covered with Peter Rabbit characters. He did it neatly, and with pride in his newfound competence. Visually checking the odd genius pair, the doctor heated up a bottle, tested a drop on a naked wrist, then sat down in the rocker to give Siger his formula.

There is a soothing aspect to feeding an infant. John had enjoyed listening to descriptions detailing personal experience from the midwives here at the Initiative. Nursing - the physical act of feeding a child from one’s body as opposed to the career - was a topic of great importance to them. Taking a moment to think about the changes in direction his life had taken, at first in moving into 221B, and lately with the advent of Siger into their lives, Dr. John H. Watson found a sense of contentment. That was not the point of his life after all, man of action as he was. 

Smiling down at the miniature redheaded Holmes in his arms, those dark eyes latched onto his face, there was an upswelling of joy in his admittedly scarred chest.

The sounds in the ten foot square room - sucking from Siger, tapping of keys from Mycroft (who was, John assumed, not texting. Probably performing research of some sort), the soft soughing of the air sliding through the vent, and the creak of the chair beneath John - were quiet. Mycroft looked up and over several times during the process of feeding, then back to his scrolling. It was restful, John thought. Siger notified his father when he was full, pulling off the nipple with a small pop and a creaking comment. The padded cloth over the man’s shoulder received a modest amount of residue from Siger’s burp. 

Right then. John stood up, gave Siger a change of nappy, cleaned his hands, then held the baby out to Siger’s uncle. “Here you go, Mycroft. Siger’s all ready to go. Do you need help with the sling?”

Mycroft’s scholarly fingers stilled, and that long-nosed face stared at the shorter, blond man with perplexity writ large upon his face. “Oh. Er, yes, John. If you would.”

By the time they’d set the bureaucrat up with the baby and wrap, Sherlock finally focused on the three. “Oh.” Taking in the situation he sighed dramatically. “Very well, Mycroft. Do try not to emotionally scar him.”

Their quarters seemed echoingly empty after his brother had gone. Well, more likely once Siger had gone with his brother as a mode of transport. “What shall we do with our surprisingly free time, John? I know you do not have any more meetings until tomorrow. Then we go home to London.” Oh, how wonderful that would be. Back in 221B with Mrs. Hudson, takeaway, even Lestrade.

His partner smiled and grabbed a gray windcheater from the back of the desk chair. “I thought we could go outside for a walk. We haven’t been out all week.”

Their walk this time was not up the cliff face to the ridge, it was down along the flat valley floor, through groves of trees, and alongside a railroad bed. A Health Walk had been installed, pavement instead of the dirt path that took one up along the rock face. Boards and poles along the route provided areas for exercise. John Watson took advantage of these, while Sherlock Holmes watched him with an eyebrow raised and the corner of his mouth quirked mockingly. “It wouldn’t hurt for you to get some exercise, Sherlock,” huffed the doctor at one point, doing crunches with his ankles crossed and held under a bar six inches off the ground.

“I prefer to get mine in London,” was the reply.

John laughed. “Chasing criminals and leaping from roof to roof is not a prescribed physical fitness regime.”

“Mmm,” the tall, dark-haired man responded, “So you have told me.”

Their walk was longer than John had expected when suggesting it. The air was not warm, but the sun was out, and the doctor found it all cheering. Discussion ranged, as it always did. No one subject, not even Siger, was kept to for long. John made sure to remind his flatmate turned partner, “Well, we’ll have two weeks to get into a routine before I leave for Glasgow.”

“Oh, yes,” drawled Sherlock, “the medical conference. Don’t worry, John. I promise not to forget Siger at Tesco, nor allow him to get kidnapped while you are gone.”

“Bloody hell, now you’ve gone and jinxed it, you git!” his friend groaned.

Sherlock laughed. “You’re more likely to get in trouble than I. What could happen?”

John turned and dropped his head to rest on Sherlock’s shirt front, hands gripping the lapels of his dark coat. “Promise me that if anything out of the ordinary -” a pause “- no, strike that. Promise me that you will call me if anything gets the slightest bit interesting?”

“In the Chinese sense?” he was teased.

“Too bloody right,” John groaned.

Arms slid round the doctor’s body, pulling him in tight. “I will text you the moment anything gets the least bit interesting.” Sherlock appreciated the sentiment rising in him as he felt John’s smile against his chest.

John’s voice was muffled, “Don’t you get involved in anything interesting without me.”

Sherlock began to laugh. “Oh, John, with our luck it’s you who will run into trouble at your presentation.”

Doctor Watson looked up and pulled a face. “Don’t bring bad luck down on me. I’m worried enough about speaking as it is!”

“Luck?” scoffed his partner, “John, there is no more such thing as luck as there is coincidence!”

They walked the pathway back debating good fortune. The guard at the back entrance gave a nod as they passed, still arguing. Not far along Sherlock stopped short in the hallway, looked both ways quickly, and dragged John into a custodial closet. “What? Wait, Sherlock, what are you - ” were all the shorter man was able to get out before the now very familiar lips sealed over his in the darkness, making speech difficult. 

Breaking apart eventually to enable breathing, the taller reached back and flipped the light switch, revealing a dank cupboard of a room. They were standing in a concrete slop drain, surrounded on either side by shelves from knee height up to just below the ceiling, and stacked with supplies. Piping ran up the wall behind John, who could feel knobs and a spigot pressing into his back. Sherlock, of course, was pressed against his front. “Yeah - ” the doctor raised a sand coloured eyebrow, “ - we are in the broom closet, why?”

“Sense of adventure, John,” those deep tones murmured, “Any moment we could be discovered!” Then the tall, bewildering man dropped to his knees, and shortly had his partner’s trousers open, and was applying his tongue and lips to the rampant penis that fair leaped out at him.

“Gah!” John wondered if he would some day sustain a concussion from Sherlock’s impromptu blow jobs, as he felt the pipes behind him connect noisily with the back of his head. Then the words caught up. This was a well-used hallway, connecting to the kitchens and the cafeteria. Custodians visited this space constantly throughout the day. Expecting that to daunt his recalcitrant genitalia, John was surprised to find himself even closer to the finish because of it. “Is this going to happen often?” his words dopplered up as Sherlock teased him, slowly dragging his teeth a bit before swallowing down again. John tried again, “Because I don’t think Lestrade would appreciate random sex occurring at a crime scene.”

Sherlock pulled back, his hands touching, pulling, stroking, not stopping as he leered, “Yes, John. Lestrade and his minions going about their work while I have you up against a wall in the next alley, bringing you off.” His mouth went right back to where it had been before.

John released his frantic grip on the chipboard shelving to either side, and sank his fingers into the soft, black curls on top of Sherlock’s head, bringing a moan from the kneeling man. Sherlock's blogger managed silence by biting his lip as he came into the soft, hot mouth surrounding him.

Recovery took a bit. John came to himself as his daft detective was tucking John away, pulling up the zip, and re-fastening the good doctor’s belt. “The things I am learning about myself from knowing you,” was said somewhat reproachfully.

“Cheer up, John,” was cheerfully offered with a pat, and then the kneeling man stood for a kiss. “You can give me a thorough lesson when we get back to the room.” They stepped out of the closet, Sherlock boldly, John a little less, as Sherlock went on, “Provided Mycroft doesn’t show up just at the wrong moment.”

“He wouldn’t,” John offered hopefully.

Sherlock indicated the plastic and metal sign blocking the usually busy corridor which read, “Danger! Men at work”.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My apologies. First of all.... late. Second, this is short.
> 
> Life intruded. : )


	42. Home is where...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Welcome home, Siger!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to my beta-reader, Lunamoth116.
> 
> And thank you all for your comments!

They were home. Sherlock was out of the car with Siger before John could unfasten the carrier and before the driver could open the door or get the bags out of the boot. There was a camaraderie between the driver - who managed to be unremarkable while being obviously fit enough to bodyguard - and the smaller doctor - also described as unremarkable, yet caught up in the whirlwind that was the Holmes family. What had Culverton Smith called him? Oh, yes. Sherlock’s thug. John held the black wooden door; Sherlock had used his key and left it open behind him, for the driver to get through with the bags. “Just upstairs, please. You can leave them in the sitting room. Thanks.”

Still wielding the bulky, protective infant seat, John made his way to Mrs. Hudson’s flat. Sprawling comfortably in the center of the couch was his partner, surrounded on either side by elderly ladies, and with his son resting on that flat stomach. Mrs. Hudson, birdlike on the left, looked ready to snatch Siger out of Sherlock’s arms. Mrs. Turner, a large, solid and practical woman, appeared chastened. She might have had “married ones”, but Martha Hudson had a baby.

Setting the carrier in the hall, John shoved it backward with a foot, then joined the party. The coffee table, strewn with cards, gin possibly, or rummy rather than bridge, a notepad and pencil, told him of an interrupted game. “What do you think, Mrs. Hudson?” John grinned at the scene.

“Siger is beautiful, John! Look at those curls, just like his father,” Mrs. Hudson pattered on.

Mrs. Turner, not to be outdone, raved about “that gorgeous red hair!” Hers was dyed an improbable shade of the color.

Seeing that her lodger was not going to hand over the baby any time soon, Mrs. Hudson had a thought. “We should call Alice up! She’ll want to see the baby as well. We’ve been waiting forever to meet him!”

And nothing would do but that they should call their business manager out of 221C to add to the merriment. John had quite forgotten about Alice Brown. So, apparently, had Sherlock. But that was no matter. Calling for tea (“not your housekeeper, dear”), and leaping to his feet while still managing to support Siger’s neck and back, the consulting detective ran off to their office to see how things had gone in his absence.

Well. Or so Alice told them. She had their taxes done. There was a pile of correspondence for the pair of them to look at. Bills had been paid. The desk had been softened by a vase filled with dried cornflowers. Sherlock introduced Siger, complimented Alice on her earrings, and was out of the office and on his way upstairs to their own 221B before John got a word in. The earrings were small skulls, John had time to notice, before he promised Alice that they’d be down tomorrow to get to work, and followed his son and his partner up to their home.

Home. 221B was neater than they’d left it. Or perhaps it was that the sitting room was neater than John had memorized. When he got upstairs, Sherlock was introducing their own skull to Siger. Siger wouldn’t remember the skull’s name either, and John commented upon it. “Don’t be foolish, John. He doesn’t have the verbal skills or the physiology to pronounce any names yet. With repeated application, Siger will remember all he needs to in the appropriate moment,” was the reply.

John laughed and, almost tripping over their baggage, went into the kitchen to put the kettle on. Sherlock gave Siger a tour of the downstairs, then whisked up to the nursery. John followed with the bags that belonged to the baby. 

What had been John’s room was now clearly not. The walls, previously a dark, steel blue with white trim, were a matte cream. The ceiling was white, with black geometric shapes. John had thought the forms were painted when he’d come home from the clinic to find it done. No, he was informed. “Tape, John. Carpenter’s tape. They can be removed with little residue when Siger’s eyes develop enough to see more than black and white, and shapes. I had thought we would replace them with constellations that you could share with Siger. I have purchased stars that glow in the dark.” John noticed that Sherlock would not be involved in the astronomy, but it was a warming offer nonetheless.

The wall over the crib was decorated with a huge poster that Greg Lestrade had found and given them. It was of a Victorian painting of the Teddy Bears’ picnic, and Sherlock, upon receiving it, had made a face, but responded with the appropriate courtesy. Well, he had after John had given him an elbow in the ribs. Next to the crib was a changing table, stacked with cloth diapers and nappy covers in all colors. The piece of furniture was the same wood, but of a different style than the crib. An odd looking pail stood in the corner behind the door. Sherlock had assured him it would help deal with any odors from the dirty nappies. All of the furniture Sherlock had found fit together, even though not one piece matched another. Everything was simple. No garish stickers or paint jobs over the light, clear grain of the beech wood.

Where John’s short, squat oak dresser had stood was a tall chest of drawers filled with Siger’s already impressive wardrobe. To the side stood a toy chest, as yet only partially filled. Above that were shelves that matched the furniture and housed _Treasure Island_ , a book of nursery rhymes, and _Gray’s Anatomy_. A rocking chair stood in the far corner, the seat looked heavily padded, but still thinner than desirable to eyes used to spending hours on the flattened cushions on the industrial grade chairs of the Initiative.

The kettle whistled while Siger was being introduced to the periodic table of elements mounting the wall opposite to the Teddies. “Change him please, Sherlock? I’ll get our tea ready.”

When they rejoined John, he had tea and biscuits set out on the coffee table - for once remarkably clear of crime scene photos - and a bottle ready for Siger. “My turn.” He held his hands up and waited. 

His flatmate - well, John supposed he had two flatmates now - reluctantly handed the infant over, but threw himself down on the couch with a relieved sigh. “Home, finally!” he threw into the air before sitting back up and reaching for his mug of tea. 

John nodded, the experience of feeding the baby for the first time in their flat taking precedence over entertaining Sherlock. He hadn’t thought of it before now, but his tea was going to get cold. One arm for the baby, and the bottle in the opposite hand did not leave an appendage for holding a mug. He noticed later that Sherlock had placed the biscuit plate over the top of the tea to keep it at least somewhat warm.

A flannel over his right shoulder, left hand gently rubbing Siger’s back until he heard the tiny push of air that was the little one’s burp, John wondered aloud if Sherlock had calculated how many times they would revisit this little scene until their son was weaned. Sherlock answered, of course he had. And would John please make certain to mark the entry for the feeding in Siger’s journal. Bouncing up, the taller man found a rolled chart on pasteboard which he then affixed to the wall behind John’s desk. “We can track his growth here from the entries in the journal. Once a week should be fine,” he commented before snatching up the laptop from the table where he’d just placed it within John’s reach. Checking with his flatmate for the precise amount in the bottle, Sherlock began to fill data in on the chart from the week since Siger’s birth.

Bottle done, and his own tea eaten while Siger looked on curiously, John placed a blanket on the floor of the bedroom, soft and knitted by Harry, for the child to lie on while John emptied their bags and put things away. Stomach time, the pediatricians at the Institute had called it. The blanket, in bands of black, purple, grey and white, was slightly lumpy, only approximated a square, and had a missed stitch here and there. Still, John was touched that Harry had troubled herself to take up knitting. So far as John could recall, Harry had only knit one summer when they were children. Aunt Harriet had offered to teach them both, but John had spent as much of the holiday in a tree pretending to be an orangutan as was humanly possible.

There was time to try out the pram with a walk around the block to a local Thai restaurant before meandering back to Baker Street, a bottle for Siger, and tom yum soup for John and Sherlock. Then there was fussing. Sherlock had discovered some responses to his website that required scathing reply. Siger complained vigorously about it being half seven in the evening. John rocked the baby for a bit, and supplied responses such as “Shocking!” and “Why ever would they say something like that?” to keep his madman going. 

Sherlock, at one point, looked over at the relaxing doctor from under his fringe of dark curls and told him, “There is no need to be sarcastic, John. Obviously this person is a moron who understands nothing about inference and deduction!”

John laughed, and took Siger upstairs for a nappy change, then back down to set the baby in a mechanical swing by his desk while he checked on his blog. The swing had been difficult to put together to begin with, and tended to make a clacking sound as it moved the infant back and forth under a mobile that Sherlock had made of spheres and rods depicting common molecules. Siger watched it in fascination while his fathers went about their own business. At least until he fell asleep.

Putting the baby to bed allowed Sherlock to test the baby monitor. The room felt a bit crowded, with them both trying to do bedtime chores. They’d not gotten into a rhythm at the Initiative. The two men left the door cracked, and retired to the sitting room, the couch, and the quiet of a London evening. There were soft sounds from Siger’s monitor, sleepy snuffles, shifting movements. Traffic passed outside. The tall, slender man looked over at the shorter blond and gave a small smile. The grin returned was interrupted by a yawn. “Time to turn in ourselves, yeah,” John said, “before he wakes us up in four hours?”

“You go.” Sherlock stretched. “I’m not sleepy yet.”

Be that as it may, it was not long before John felt the bed sink, covers lifted to allow cool air to assault his pajama-clad arse, and a thin form wrap itself around him. He was vaguely aware when Sherlock left the bed in the middle of the night to answer the crying of Siger sounding through the monitor. Not like he was fully awake at all, just aware. It was only a moment before he sank back into sleep.

The perambulator came out again the next morning. It was set in the hallway by the front door, a monstrosity in black cloth and steel. John was not looking forward to changing it round when Siger was old enough to face forward. Now he was hard pressed not to laugh at the angular features of his best friend leant forward over the slug like bundle of the baby in his wraps, the adult chattering in French.

After some shopping, and a moderate amount of showing off on the way (on Sherlock’s part to the odd people that he had collected) they took the tube to Saint Bart’s. The pram wouldn’t have fit on the bus, and it was a bit much to walk and get everything accomplished before noon. Once they arrived there was the issue of storing the transport. Sherlock produced a bike lock from the pockets of his voluminous black wool coat and they locked the stroller down before loading up on the baby, his wraps, and the diaper bag.

“John -” that came in Sherlock’s “I am in authority” tone - “check in with Mike Stamford and ask him if he’s found us an _au pair_ , or at least a list of sitters.”

“Oh, and what will you be doing while I’m finding Mike?” John lifted an eyebrow.

Sherlock raised and elegantly shaped one back at him. “I am not collecting body parts today. I simply want to introduce Siger to Molly.”

A tilt of the head, that gauging look in the blue eyes under those sand-coloured brows, before John Watson agreed. “Alright.” Even now, after their relationship had changed so much, given Sherlock the opportunity to read everything about John Watson with a touch, the detective could still enjoy studying him at every opportunity. John felt he was giving this to Sherlock, instead of being involved himself. He understood.

John Watson, doctor and new father, found his way to Mike Stamford’s office in time to miss student hours. Much as John wanted to be part of every aspect of Siger’s life, and Sherlock’s as well, he realized there was a special bond between the consulting detective and the forensic pathologist. The mortuary was their place. It had been the mortuary lab in which they’d met, he and Sherlock. It was to the mortuary, John had learned much later, that Sherlock had gone after falsifying his suicide in leaping from the top of Saint Bart’s. Now that John thought about it, he wondered if his partner had told Molly that they were adopting a baby. John had discussed it with Mike, of course, but although Mike liked a bit of gossip, was this something he’d have gone out of his way to share with Molly Hooper?

Sherlock stopped to make use of a disableds washroom set up with a changing table. There was also a thoughtful, but uncomfortable chair in a far corner that allowed him to feed Siger after warming the bottle in the hot tap water of a sink. The changing table flipped out from the wall, and, after making lavish use of the disinfectant that John had so thoughtfully packed in the nappy bag, gave a flat surface at what was a standard wheelchair height for the work of removing the nappy, cleaning the baby, preventing Siger from painting the ceiling of the loo, and getting the baby re-diapered and reclothed. The six-foot-tall man had to bend over a bit to accomplish all of this.

Sherlock hoped that he had not gone overboard. He trusted that his partner would notify him of any social oddities that would cause problems in the public forum. The issue with that was that John sometimes found Sherlock’s eccentricities endearing. Sherlock did not care what most of the human population thought of his behaviour, nor at times his appearance when in pursuit of the answer to a puzzle. Siger, however, was an entirely different story. Today the infant was dressed in a purple body creeper that matched Sherlock’s shirt. It did not go particularly well with Siger’s bright red hair. Clearly Sherlock would need to go through all of the previously purchased baby clothes and recalculate. Just as clearly, and with a small bit of negative sentiment, there would be limits to dressing alike. He could have changed, he now supposed, to match an outfit that would have suited Siger better, but it had not occurred to the detective at the time. It was, as he would happily explain to anyone who needed to be taught that primary lesson, a process.

“Molly!” Sherlock burst through the doors of the lab, after having checked the autopsy theater.

Dr. Molly Hooper was long past being startled by the consulting detective. Well, qualifiers did exist. She was past being startled by his appearance in her mortuary, the theater, or her office at all hours of the night or day. “Hello, Sherlock. Did you text me for some body parts?” She dragged her mobile from the pocket of her lab coat and checked. Nothing.

“No, Molly.” Sherlock had an unfamiliar white vinyl bag over his shoulder, and a bundle in his arms.

“Have you brought _me_ some body parts?” The mortuary doctor smiled. “What do you have there?” she asked curiously.

Sherlock smiled down at the bundle. Body parts. Well, yes. He was lost for a moment before coming back to the real world. “I wanted to introduce you to someone.”

“I’ve already met your skull, Sherlock.” Molly walked around the large table, drying her cleaned hands. She noticed, but did not realize the Peter Rabbit figures on the odd white bag he carried.

“Better than the skull, Molly!” Shifting the baby in his arms, pulling aside the far too many wraps he’d placed around the week-old baby, he held him up. “This is Siger.” Then, in case he’d not been clear enough for her smallish brain - though it was quick enough to try to keep up with him most days, at least on some medical issues - Sherlock went on, “My son. Siger.”

Oh. A baby, was Molly’s first thought on seeing the small red face, hearing the soft sounds cooing from that tiny cupid’s-bow mouth. Then came the alarming wonder of where Sherlock Holmes had obtained an infant. And then the words caught up. “Your son?” The courteous response, drilled into Molly Hooper from long years of watching friends and family produce children while she, herself, spent all of her time in the hospital basement with dead bodies, fell completely flat. “Your son?” was all she could repeat for a moment.

“Yes, do catch up, Molly.” Sherlock was smiling down into wide-awake blue eyes - were they changing already? - “Siger, this is Dr. Molly Hooper. She helps _Père_ solve cases. Well, I say helps, but not like Daddy running about London. More in a laboratory setting.”

Molly moved closer, putting her index finger close for the now free miniature hand to catch and hold tight. The infant had curls like Sherlock’s beautiful hair, but they were a vivid red. Otherwise, he - Siger? - looked like a baby. There was that short snub nose, of course. Molly found herself saying, “With that nose he looks more like John.”

She was rewarded with a blinding smile, and a “Well spotted, Molly Hooper! Yes, his genetics on the female side come from John’s family. John and I are raising him.” There was a reluctance to his next question. “Would you like to hold him?”

“No! No thank you, Sherlock, not right at this moment. Would you like to sit down? We can sit in my office and you can tell me about -” a pause to go over the past few minutes in her head, then “- Siger.”

She did not miss the look of relief passing over those well-known, well-loved features. It occurred to her that Sherlock had just offered to share something precious with her. That offer itself was precious. While she was still not ready to hold the baby, it warmed her to know that Sherlock Holmes, who was extraordinarily possessive about things - oh, not about things like his riding crop, but about people - had brought the baby here to meet her. “So, you and John?” That was more than one question in the asking of it.

Cuddling the infant for a moment before relieving him of quantities of flannel and knitwear to reveal a bodysuit in a vibrant purple that Molly had never seen before on an infant, the tall, dark object of her wildest dreams gave a soft smile that looked remarkably odd on that familiar face. “Yes, John and I. Siger brought us together. Well, we were together, but now we are partners. More than partners. A couple.” This was said with a defiant chin held up before her, those odd, pale eyes searching hers - was it for approval? Fancy that, Sherlock looking to her for approval.

Siger, for his part, had caught his attention on a fan blade whirling behind a grill on Molly’s hard drive. It was just the correct distance from where Sherlock held him. Molly found herself smiling in reassurance. “Congratulations!” she said, meaning it completely.

...

Doctors John Watson and Mike Stamford sat in the cookie-cutter office, facing each other across Mike’s messy desk piled with student work. They were drinking overpriced coffee that Mike had sent a work study student to fetch. “You and Sherlock,” Mike started. “Parents. I know you’d told me it was coming. I just had some difficulty believing it.”

“No more than I did, Mike. You started all this. It’s your fault, you know.” John Watson was feeling extraordinarily mellow. “But it’s done, and we’ve brought Siger home. Now we need to make sure we have someone at the flat to help out.”

Mike Stamford began to laugh. “It’s not done. Not by a long shot. You’ve only just begun.”

John grinned back. “Yeah. Well, you know what I mean. We have a baby now. Time to get used to it, I suppose.”

“You I can picture with a child, John. It’s Sherlock I’m having difficulty imagining.”

“You’ll be able to see it when he shows up,” John pointed out. “He’s introducing Siger to Molly first. Sent me on up ahead.”

“Right, then.” Stamford opened up a file drawer. “I have found you an _au pair_ , and I have a list of possibilities for sitters, including my oldest daughter who has the Red Cross certification.”

Looking through the lists, John read off, “Albert Tran. Vietnamese?”

“Yes. His family lives in Paris. Restauranting dynasty. Born in Paris, so he speaks French like the native he is. Grew up here in the UK, so he’s got the English, with no accent that I can tell. And of course he speaks Vietnamese. Does translating in his free time. He’s in pre-med. So you might be able to give him coaching if he needs it.”

“What’s his story?” John asked. “Not that I won’t hear it from Sherlock complete with embarrassing details.” The old friends grinned at each other.

Mike leaned back in the generic creaking office chair, taking a sip of coffee. “His family moved back to France five years ago when his grandfather died. They used to run a restaurant here, but now everyone works in the place the grandfather built in Little Vietnam. Albert’s studying here in London instead of in Paris because he wants to get away from his family. That’s being blunt. Nothing bad or abusive. Big loving family, all with many plans for him. He wants to do something different, make his own plans, so he’s moved far enough away to make it clear he’s on his own. But he’s close enough to head home in case of an emergency. Paying his own way, scholarships, odd jobs, some savings. You know how it is.”

“Good grades,” John commented, “and I’m not supposed to see these, am I?”

“He asked me to show them to you,” Mike replied. “Nothing shady about Albert. Not that he could keep anything from Sherlock anyway. No, he’s looking for a living space, free or cheap, and enough money to extend the stipend he gets from his scholarships. Fairly studious, but not obnoxiously so considering the course work. Elizabeth and I’ve had him in to babysit the girls. He does well with them. Though Olivia does have a crush on him. Otherwise she’d tell me she’s old enough not to need a babysitter. Not that she wants to watch her sisters either.”

John read through the letter Tran had written applying for the job. “Alright,” he said, nodding. “If you think he can handle living with Sherlock Holmes. When do we get to meet him?”


	43. the Au Pair

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John interview someone to care for Siger when they are on a case.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to my beta, Lunamoth116!

The initial interview - well, the only interview really - took place in Stamford’s office. Mike was not about to miss Albert’s introduction to Sherlock Holmes, and watched with that same quiet amusement he’d had when John had met the detective. Two more chairs had been produced, molded navy blue plastic that was guaranteed not to be conformable to any human body type, facing the chair John had been sitting in before. John sat in one of the plastic chairs, closest to Mike’s desk. Sherlock stood behind, pacing in the less than two metres of space left open and uncluttered by files and bookcases. Albert Tran sat facing them. The student’s entrance into the room had been straightforward, not hesitant, a little bouncy to John’s eye, and his handshake was firm.

Tran was nineteen, and looked younger. Shiny black hair was straight, clean, and of medium length. Longer than John’s, but not so much volume as Sherlock’s, and it didn’t brush the collar of his plain white button-down. Black eyebrows curved in a perfection that John’s sister would have spent hours in front of a mirror to obtain, and the black framed glasses accentuated Albert’s dark brown eyes. He seemed healthy enough, not muscular, but not slack like so many teens who spent a good deal of time in front of the computer or television screen. His posture was attentive, polite, but not rigid.

The pre-med student had introduced himself, and now Sherlock was observing the boy. John figured that intervention was unnecessary. Anyone they hired had to be able to live with Sherlock in his full-blown lunacy. The blond doctor sat back in the chair created for aliens, and waited to see Albert Tran’s reactions.

“Well, Mr. Tran.” John noticed that Sherlock had tried to copy Albert’s pronunciation of his last name. It was not accurate, but sounded close to John. Closer than Mike’s had been, anyway. Sherlock was continuing, “Your credentials are impressive. Studying under Dr. Stamford, are you? Red Cross certification. Scouting levels. Eagle Scout! Experience with children in just about every age bracket. Good so far.”

Sherlock was behind John, but the doctor could picture those narrowed eyes, the expression the taller man had on his face as he went on in his habitual spit-out delivery, “You are neither eldest nor youngest, a middle child among four. The second son. With one older sister. You are living in London, away from your family, because they decided you should be part of their business. Restaurant, was it? You date only non-Vietnamese girls, and no one girl for very long because you think this will keep your family from overreacting and pushing you to get married. You think they expect you to marry and return to the fold. You are incorrect in this. Your family are proud of you, your decision to study medicine, and your hard work in obtaining your dream. Your current girlfriend is a _Doctor Who_ fan.

“You are uninterested in pediatrics as a course of study. Good with children, but that is because of your large family, and experience in taking care of their offspring, and those of your teachers here in London. Not interested in surgery either, you don’t have the brashness -” a long-fingered hand rested on John Watson’s shoulder “- which is why you play an instrument, but it’s not brass. What is it? Hmmm. Piano. You have the hands for it.”

Albert stretched out his fingers, as though his hand curved round a ball. “Since third year.” His light voice was filled with self-deprecating humour.

Sherlock smirked, then went on, “As for your interest in medicine: not pediatrics, not surgery, and not research - you like to work with people and you thought research would limit interaction - so, obstetrics. And gynecology. Did you deliver a baby?”

A ready grin appeared on the boy’s face. “In a lift. When I was fifteen. Of course Emergency Services gave me instructions over the mobile. John Albert Smith, they named him. John Tran -” and here the pronunciation was such that Tran sounded almost like John “- was too confusing.”

“A pity that you’re not looking to study forensics or pathology,” Sherlock murmured.

Albert shot a look at Dr. Stamford, whose cool expression did not hide his amusement. Sherlock sounded smug when he commented, “Ah, I see that Dr. Stamford told you I would say that. Well, I already have a contact with access to forensics, so it really is not necessary.

“Your clearances look adequate. We offer a room in our office at Baker Street, an Oyster card sufficient for travel on the tube to classes, and any excursions you might be making with Siger, and the stipend that Dr. Stamford told you of when he asked you to apply. Tasks include evening care of Siger, some overnights, and other times according to mutual arrangement so as not to conflict with your classes or seminars. We have a schedule which is not particularly rigid, but should be kept to if at all possible. You will use all three of your languages in residence. I would like you to read to Siger in French and Vietnamese, though any books you would like to share with him in English are welcome.

“I would say a month, John, to get to know one another? After that we would consider it a permanent contract.”

Albert looked startled. His tenor was even and pleasant. He asked, “You don’t have any questions to ask me?”

John, smooth and professional, said, “We’ve already had you checked out, Mr. Tran, and are willing to give it a go for a trial period. Unless you have some questions or concerns?”

“Am I likely to be held at gunpoint in the course of this employment?” There was more humour in the question.

“Not by one of us.” John’s smile allowed a bit of his own mirth to shine through. “And we are, of course, not expecting this to be an aspect of child care. Why? Have you been hearing tales?”

“Some,” Albert admitted, “of which a few are more believable than others.”

“Highly exaggerated,” Sherlock Holmes said brusquely, as he moved forward and slapped the contracts down on the desk by Albert. “Please read them through before signing.”

The student, and now _au pair_ , did indeed read through the wording very carefully before scribbling his signature in place, and initialing where necessary.

“Great!” John exclaimed. “Now, Albert, what would you like us to call you?”

“Bert.” Albert Tran stood and reached forward to shake their hands. “Bert is fine.”

…

John had tried, for years, to stop Sherlock from licking things. Well, there was enjoyable and appropriate licking, and there was touching your tongue to potentially poisonous or dangerous - or just absolutely disgusting - evidence. “Feed. An oat and molasses mash,” his genius muttered.

The words were gibberish to John Watson. What was Sherlock saying, that he was hungry? Oat and molasses? He’d heard of turnip mash, but otherwise, wasn’t it just potato, which would not mix well with oat and molasses? The doctor enjoyed his Scots heritage, but there were just some things you did not mix with oats. Porridge, for example, was fine mixed with sugar and cream. There was an Irish mash, wasn’t there? With potatoes and leeks? And wasn't there an type of whiskey that they called "Sour Mash"?

And Sherlock was on his mobile again. John knew it was going to be a problem leaving Bert with Siger so soon after the student had moved into 221C. It was distracting them both. What was that the detective inspector was saying? “She’s been clubbed. Doesn’t look as though she’s actually been raped, but someone certainly wanted us to look at it that way.” Greg Lestrade nodded to Anderson, who had given his findings.

“Looks like whoever did the mutilation was squeamish more than anything else,” commented Anderson speculatively.

“Not much visible blood, other than those broken vessels in her eyes,” John remarked, dragging his attention back to the case at hand. He did not always get along with Anderson, but managed to be professional, if not cordial. "The bulge there on her head must be full of it"

Anderson nodded. “Subcutaneous. The forward part of her skull is in fragments, but none have pierced the skin. No weapon that I can see. Someone will have to go through the skip.”

“She was not killed here,” that deep voice pointed out, although those pale eyes never moved from the mobile.

“No?” The Detective Inspector’s tone requested further information. “Her coat is covered with filth leaking from the bin there.”

“He was attempting to put her into the skip. You will find some hairs up there when the latch fits.” Sherlock gestured to an almost invisible strand of white-blonde hair. “You’ll find fibres consistent with car upholstery on her clothing. She was in a rather spacious trunk for over an hour, but less than three. A trunk, empty, but you will find DNA evidence to prove that she was there.”

“And you’re going to tell us the make, model and year?” Anderson suggested, his grudge against Sherlock evident in his voice.

“A stable? You want us to look at a stable for her killer?” came from Sergeant Sally Donovan.

That won a surprised look away from the mobile and a tiny smile from Holmes. “Very good, Sergeant. You were listening. A stable, commercial probably from the brand of mash.”

Gregory Lestrade looked confused, seeing that Sally had linked what the tall, black-haired git had been muttering and made something of it. “Mash? Potatoes?”

“Horse feed, sir.” Donovan nodded. “A mixture of oats and usually molasses for sweetener because it’s cheap.” Then she turned to Sherlock Holmes and asked him directly, “You found mash on her clothes?”

A return nod from Holmes, who indicated the body, a young blonde woman, school-aged, dressed in tight jeans, a white tee shirt decorated with a skull, and a dirty black Spring coat. Her dead eyes were open, reddish and sunken. Her face looked slightly surprised. “The wound on her forehead is compatible with a hoof print. Smallish horse, Arabian I’d say. Not iron-shod.”

John found himself watching the understanding on Sally Donovan’s face, the comprehension. It was a much better look on her than the usual disgruntled unhappiness. Drawing on a discussion from long ago, the doctor thought he had been aware that Sherlock had ridden when he was younger. A fragment of a description of Mycroft as “before Lestrade, the only exercise my dear brother ever enjoyed was fencing and riding a horse.”

“Right,” the aforementioned Lestrade bit out. “So we’re looking for a stable within three hours of here, but not within London itself, and an unshod Arabian horse as the killer.”

“You will find -” Sherlock turned his gaze to the Detective Inspector “- that the horses used for work in London, the Horse Guards, the Met, hacks, are shod, iron shoes, and will tend to be larger. There are riding schools, and stables within London, but those horses will be iron-shod as well.”

Donovan picked up, “You’d need a soft surface for a hoof without shoes. Otherwise the hoof would split on the asphalt and concrete. A horse’s hoof is nothing more than a giant fingernail.”

John had been so busy watching the interchange between Donovan and Holmes that he had missed the expressions on Anderson’s and Lestrade’s faces. The forensic pathologist, mouth hanging open, looked as though he’d bitten into something sour and was trying to get rid of the taste. Lestrade’s surprise in this case was enjoyable, but John thought the detective inspector looked pleased as well.

“It’s not,” Sherlock told John later, “that they wouldn’t have found the foreign substances on the body when they tested the clothing in the lab. I gave them a day’s head start on the legwork. Donovan did a good job, though, locating the stable and finding the culprit.”

John’s smile was crooked, and he ran a hand along his partner’s arm. “You just complimented Donovan.”

“If she acted to the best of her ability all of the time, instead of lowering her I.Q. with Anderson, then you’d hear it more often,” huffed Sherlock. “Still, she handled the stableboy well. Her -” here Holmes sniffed and added “- sentiment enabled her to get the confession.”

Lestrade called on them at 221B with the conclusion of the case. “The boy was dead scared. Said the girl had been beating him up after school and came after him at work. He told Sally that the girl was stupid. And begged us not to have the horse killed because of it.”

“Will they kill the horse?” John asked. He placed a brass tray on the coffee table, handing a mug of light, sweet tea to the detective inspector.

“Likely not. It was an accident, and the victim panicked the horse. Like the kid said, not the horse’s fault.”

Sherlock did not look up from his mobile as he pointed out, “Of course this entire incident will now be on his record. And he could be listed as a sex offender for what he did to her body to try to disguise the cause of death. He didn’t mutilate her for any prurient reason, but it could still be misconstrued.”

“He’ll see a psychologist, and the owner of the stable is supplying counsel. Says the girl was a trespasser, and he’ll do right by the boy.” Greg looked around the sitting room, where John had just served tea. “So, where’s Siger? I’d like to meet him. Mycroft has been telling me about him.”

“Not here.” John’s smile was amused. “Bert took him to the park.” He tapped the arm of the man sitting by him on the couch. “Oy! Sherlock, leave Bert alone and drink your tea.”

“What’s he doing then?” Greg asked, with a nod toward the consulting detective before taking a drink of tea.

“Tracking Bert’s mobile’s GPS.” John rolled his eyes and bit happily into a currant rock. “Have a biscuit, Greg. He’s not going to be much good until Siger’s home.”

That rounded baritone informed them, “They are three blocks away, and you’ll get your chance when they arrive, Lestrade.”

The mysterious, unseen Siger’s entry, facilitated by Bert, was not silent. Siger was not heard. Though, “Mrs. Hudson!” The men upstairs in the sitting room could hear the bang of the door and the shouted greeting over their conversation. The baby and the young man, however, did not appear. Lestrade looked over at Sherlock who had heaved a sigh as heavy as a wet bag of cement. 

John laughed. “Just wait. It will take a while for Bert to get upstairs. He stops in to see Mrs. Hudson and Alice first. Bert flirts with all women, all ages.”

“Alice?” Greg asked, attempting in vain to hide his laughter at the tall, irritating consultant’s pouting.

“Alice Brown.” John took another currant rock and moved the plate closer to the other men. “Our business manager. She works out of 221C.”

Greg was silent a moment, eating a biscuit he’d dipped into his mug. “You have a business manager.” Comment, rather than question. “I feel out of the loop, John. Neither you, nor -” a weighty pause “- anyone else told me you’d incorporated. Much less gained a business manager. I could work with her to schedule you for depositions.”

Sherlock was ignoring both of them, and looked to John to be listening to the noises downstairs. “Yeah.” John cocked his head. “A while ago. The incorporation. We’ve had a joint account since _The Blind Banker_. And incorporated after -” and now the blond doctor hitched and changed what he had been about to say “- before we found out about the Initiative.”

“So, what you neglected to tell me,” Greg said evenly, “was that I could have been dealing with the paperwork issue through your business manager.”

Oh. That thought had never occurred to John, not until this discussion. “Would you like to meet Alice?” he offered.

Which lead to the three of them clomping downstairs, for Sherlock followed along without a word.

...

Sherlock Holmes looked down. There were six people in 221C, and he loomed over all of them except for Lestrade. John and Alice Brown were the same height. Mrs. Hudson was shorter still. Albert Tran, sitting still under scrutiny by the women, was only an inch or two taller than John. The feeling was almost a flashback to the year in school when he’d gotten his growth spurt and towered over all of the others, students and teachers. They were sitting in the conversation area, with Lestrade holding Siger and grinning at the little red-haired mite. “I wonder if this is what Mycroft looked like when he was a baby,” he’d said, ignoring Sherlock’s disgusted groan in response.

Mrs. Hudson had supplied tea, sandwiches, and cake, while Sherlock was recounting the points of evidence in the last case to Alice and Bert, focusing on the brand of mash used by the stable in question. 

“Was your heart galloping? When you arrived on the scene?” Bert’s question was not so much an interruption, but it was certainly thrust quickly into Sherlock’s spit-out narrative between bursts of words.

John admired the young man’s skill. The words had stopped Sherlock’s rapid patter. The pale eyes stared at Bert for a moment. This was where the consulting detective tended to condescend. John was always pointing that issue out. The tall man knew that all was not as it seemed here, though. Butter was not melting in the _au pair’s_ mouth. Bert looked involved and interested, leaning forward, eyes focused on Sherlock totally. Sherlock’s gaze in return was equally intent, as he had the feeling a tennis ball had been sent his way for a volley. “No.” the consulting detective spoke slowly, carefully. “Neither my pulse, nor my respiration were in any way elevated.”

“Ah, but you were able to give the Met the essentials they needed, that’s the mane thing,” was the reply.

Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade’s snort was inelegant. Sherlock looked over to his partner. John Watson had a hand in front of his mouth, and was obviously trying not to laugh. When John spoke, his voice was strained. “Hey -” a pause, with snickers round the room, then “- they’d have caught him eventually. That boy was clearly not stabile.”

Bert’s grin was bright. Greg was laughing out loud now. His comment was unclear as he laughed through the words, something about Sherlock’s examination in the alley was all muddled except for the phrase “unbridled enthusiasm!” Which broke John up.

Sherlock retreated to his mind palace, not deeply, to review the faces at the table while they were speaking, targeting the words at the moment each countenance changed to indicate levity. John’s especially was an open book to him. Words. _Galloped_ of course had to be in some way connected. _Main_. _Hey_. _Stabile_. _Unbridled_. Not the words, the sounds. _Mane_. _Hay_. _Stable_.

“Ah.” Sherlock Holmes left his palace foyer and rejoined the group. “Word games.” His tone of voice told anyone who cared to listen exactly how he felt about those.

Greg had Siger leaned against his chest. The baby peered up at the laughing, silver-haired man in amazement. “Puns -” their friend wagged a finger at the smiling Albert Tran “- are the lowest form of humor!”

“Or the highest,” murmured the student as he sipped his unsweetened tea.

“Please, Mr. Holmes.” Alice Brown shot a reproving look at the laughing men, though she’d been chuckling as well. “Go on, I’m interested in knowing how you knew where the event occurred.”

Sherlock was aware of many things. His hand rested on John Watson’s shoulder, as his flatmate sat in a folding chair pulled from the closet. John’s competent hand rested on his own, and although he could not see the face of his partner, he could read the relaxed body language very well. The faces in the circle, male and female alike, were alight with laughter from Albert Tran’s attempts at humor. Siger was watching them all avidly. This was…a bit good.

“I will not say you nay.” He quirked a corner of his mouth at Alice Brown, then waited while the Detective Inspector whooped, Siger startled (but did not cry), John turned to raise an surprised eyebrow at him, and the others laughed, before smiling at his partner, and continuing on with his explanation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Winding down. There will be two more chapters for now, and I'm going to spend April working on a second draft of one of my NaNoWriMo stories.


	44. New Life

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Settling in with three new people at 221.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you very much to LunaMoth116 for all her beta-ing and commentary.

Albert Tran took a good deal of chaffing about his new job. He was affable, and tended to chat with his mates, not keeping all that many secrets. He liked to think of himself as an open book. Open-ish, anyway. The whole kid-sitting bit had been a good hook for girls too. Nothing to worry about. Except that being an _au pair_ was not something stereotypically male. “So, you’re a nanny, huh? Like Mary Poppins?” Edward had asked him with a mouthful of bacon sandwich, and a look of disbelief.

“No umbrella, Edward. Not female, Edward. Just looking after someone’s kid. Like at home when I had to look after my nieces and nephews. Only getting paid to do it.” Albert concentrated on his own sandwich, which was not appetizing, being formed of pasty white bread, a slice of plastic orange cheese, and a paper-thin piece of meat that defied description. The label read “ham”, but it wasn’t possible for ham to be that grey colour, was it? Perhaps he could talk Mrs. Hudson into making his lunch for tomorrow. Bert was perfectly capable of making his own, but where was the fun in that?

Plus, the refrigerator in 221C contained body parts. There was a packet of white rats in the freezer, but otherwise they were human bits and pieces. And some sort of chemical mix that required refrigeration to keep it from combusting. Albert thought that he might be able to store some food items up in 221B, but that meant a walk up the seventeen steps, knocking politely - as it wasn’t his scheduled time to work - and being caught up in whatever drama his employers had on for the day. Which was fun, yeah. But his second day he’d not gotten to classes, because Mr. Holmes had conscripted him for a bit of emergency cleaning before Siger woke up and Dr. Watson got home from a night shift at the clinic. Once Siger had woken up, Bert had taken care of the baby while the tall, crazy detective had frantically sterilized the kitchen and bathroom of the flat. 

At some point an exhausted-looking Dr. Watson had arrived, taken everything into account at a glance and was just plucking Siger out of Bert’s arms with the admonition, “You have classes, Bert. Better get going” when the grey-haired detective inspector - Lestrade? - had come bolting up the stairs. Bert had received Siger back again, as his two employers took off after the DI. Bert had noticed that Dr. Watson no longer looked tired, but completely awake and ready to run to wherever they were haring to. Meanwhile, although Bert was well aware that he could have pawned the baby off on Mrs. Hudson, or Alice Brown (and why _did_ his employers always use her complete name instead of just Alice?) and made at least one of his lectures, he’d opted for texting a friend and Skyping the class instead from the sitting room of 221B, with Siger either on his lap, the floor, or the swing. Since the computer’s microphone was on “mute”, Bert found himself explaining the lesson to Siger as he took notes. Siger had listened intently for a while, but eventually found other things to look at and listen to.

So, long story short, taking the easy way out might actually be the morally more straightforward option. At least, so far as his schooling was concerned. Meanwhile, there were his friends. Edward may have appeared Cro-Magnon, but he was in pre-med, looking toward nephrology as a specialization. So he couldn’t be that stupid, could he? Of course, Mr. Holmes had told Bert, quite seriously and to his face, that everyone was stupid. It wasn’t their fault, really, but it did not mean that he, Mr. Holmes, had to suffer their sheeplike faces except under duress. 

Edward was still speaking, and had been apparently for the whole time. “I’m sorry, Ed. I missed what you were saying. Repeat?” Bert gave a deprecating grin that was returned with a snarky one from Edward. It gave him a much more intelligent look.

“I said, I read the _Mary Poppins_ books when I was a kid. After I saw the movie. Not much like the film, but they were okay. There’s a Bert in the story” - and didn’t Albert know that. Every Bert in the world must have heard at least one chimney sweep reference in the course of his life - “and an Albert too. The uncle, who ends up on laughing on the ceiling. He’s the chimney sweep’s uncle.”

Oh. Bert had forgotten about that. “Who’s the author? Maybe I’ll read the book to Siger.”

“Books. There’s a bunch.” Edward stuffed the last bit of his bacon sandwich into his mouth and went on, spraying crumbs, “Travers.” He swallowed painfully, then said more clearly, “P.L. Travers. You’ll have to tell me if your life is like the book. Magic things happening at weird times and places.” His friend was standing, grabbing at napkins, his laptop, pile of books and notebooks. “Got to go. See you in lab?”

Bert nodded, and turned back to his lunch. With a wince he stood up, cleared his place and dropped the offensive item into the bin by the door. Just time for him to grab an apple before lab. That should restore him.

It was on the way back to Baker Street that Albert Tran noticed the movement of the CCTV cameras. He began to watch them.

…

Alice Brown, her peter pan collar as crisp, her blouse as unwrinkled as when she arrived at the office, finished the correspondence for the day, minus Mr. Holmes’s observations about the recipient of the letter, and went through her checklist of closing procedures. She had determined that a list of items to be done each day in shutting down the office was a necessity. It wasn’t that Alice would ordinarily forget such simple tasks. The issue was that Mr. Holmes tended to throw things at her, unprepared, and expected her to take them all in stride. So she did, by keeping notes on everything, backing them up obsessively, and resorting to checklists. 

Bert was probably upstairs studying and watching Siger. He had the key. Alice thought she might be able to just leave the door to the office unlocked, but Dr. Watson had told her to be prepared for anything. Alice suspected that Dr. Watson had some form of firearm in the house. She had not seen it, but there had been an offhand reference from Mr. Holmes at one point, followed by a cautious look toward where she had been ostentatiously typing. Anything could happen here. Which was why there were two hidden safes in the flat, and all material that was the least bit sensitive went into those at the end of the day. The safes had not been provided by either Dr. Watson or Mr. Holmes. As Mr. Holmes had said, not unkindly at least, if someone wanted to break in, they would. If someone wanted to steal, it would occur. If anyone came in and threatened her, she was to give them whatever they asked - barring what they wanted was Siger or John, her virtue or her life - and told them whatever they demanded to know, then escape as soon as she could and get away. This from a man who hid his cigarettes in a slipper. Alice was not used to being told that security precautions were absurd. 

The office manager had spent the first two weeks of her employment convinced that she was being watched and followed. The feeling had been a nagging itch, because she could not figure out how, exactly. When Dr. Watson and Mr. Holmes had returned from The Institute with Siger, she’d told them about it. They’d checked with their sources, and assured her that she _was_ being watched, but it was to ensure her own safety. Dr. Watson - John - had murmured confidentially that they were all being watched for that reason. John had said that much as he didn’t like it, it was best to live her life and just get on with things. Because Sherlock’s brother was never going to stop meddling.

Alice was certain that Sherlock’s brother - it was too confusing to call them both “Mr. Holmes” - knew about the body parts in the fridge. There was a license to keep them. Alice had made that happen, along with all the other necessary clearances and permissions that Mr. Sherlock Holmes seemed to need and totally ignore. 

Alice had never seen the ominous brother to Sherlock Holmes. She had however, met quite a few odd individuals, both as clients, and as the detective's resources. For example, Alice was also responsible for dealing with the paperwork that Detective Inspector Lestrade brought over from time to time. The attractive, silver-haired man usually brought them himself, instead of sending a messenger, and had a cuppa with her, chatting while she filled them out. He was cheeky, and she liked him. He was, apparently, involved with Mr. Holmes’ brother. Alice had been surprised to hear that from Mrs. Hudson. Mr. Holmes, John, DI Lestrade, and Sherlock’s brother did not fit her definition of homosexual.

She’d had a talk with Albert about that. Sometimes he studied in the conversation area of the office while she was working. He liked the company. Or as Bert had said, “Lovely female companionship”. Bert had pointed out that she probably knew quite a few men and women whose sexual orientations were not what she thought. Could she tell what religion someone was by looking at them? he’d asked.

“I should hope so,” Alice had replied, not rudely, but with certainty.

Albert had pointed to himself and raised eyebrows in question. “You’re Roman Catholic,” Alice had said immediately. Alice had heard him speaking about the differences between C of E and Catholicism with Mrs. Hudson.

Shaking his head, Bert had said, “Buddhist. But you can’t assume that everyone who’s Asian is. My best friend growing up in Little Saigon was Roman Catholic. Another friend who lived there was Jewish.”

That startled Alice. She’d spent her trip home on the tube examining the faces of those around her. Later she’d noticed that Mr. Holmes seemed to know that Bert was Buddhist, because he’d asked him a specific question for a case, commenting on a variety of temples in London. Immediately Alice had asked the detective if he knew where she went to church, and he had told her the name, the address, and which service she attended. What must it be like to be able to read so much from people? Because Alice Brown was certain that Mr. Holmes had not gotten that information from whomever was keeping an eye on her in the street. “Oh, for heaven’s sake,” the man had grated out at her surprised expression, before listing exactly how he knew those things from her habits, her place of residence, and her love of the pastry shop on the way home from church on Sunday.

The next day Alice had brought in enough of the flaky, buttery pastries for them all to eat, to Sherlock Holmes’s own surprise. She’d got him dead on, with an almond croissant. A cheese Danish had served for John and earned her a brilliant smile, and a fresh wheat roll for Bert, who had taken a deep sniff of the broken crust, a reverent bite, and muttered, “Real bread.” 

Really, as Mr. Holmes said, it was simple when you knew how to do it. It was just a matter of looking at things completely. Seeing and observing.

…

Existence. Was. The infant who would later understand that he was male and Siger Holmes took in information constantly. Closest and largest in his moment were two beings. There were beings and not beings. The dark and bright rumbling being that smelled sharp and the light and sound patterned being that smelled like the tasted fluid were more. Other beings, including the one that patterned sound much like the light being, close to where sound came in, but smelled more like the dark and bright being, were less. The beings-who-were-more had been with this one since it was no longer surrounded, but were separate. Before, when it was surrounded, it had listened to them, but they had not been so loud as now.

Everything was now. Some nows had pain. Pain in the center, which was relieved by the warm fluid that had flavor. Pain that came to the center after the warm flavorful fluid but left after a bubble burst forth from its tasting place. Pain down below that received a lack of pressure, then cold wetness before dry and something soothing, and then warm dry pressure again. Every now could be improved by the dark and bright being, or the light and sounding being. They comforted it. It was in their care. It was attached to the pair of beings. They were attached to each other. It was a scent of them both, and a sound of their voices at all nows. 

Some nows were filled with movement and shrill sounds and smells to be recorded. All nows presented information. Some beings put themselves too close to see as anything but blur. It knew them all, though. It preferred the dark and bright being with the deep vibration, or the light being that made sounds of a higher pitch. Those were easier to hear, the higher pitches. That did not mean it did not enjoy the lower vibrations, especially when they came with being comfortably surrounded. Well, as close to being surrounded as seemed to be available now. The light being with sound surrounded it as well, usually while sharing patterns of sound.

It was putting pieces of information received together as fast as they were gathered.

…

John Watson was speaking with Phillip Anderson about the blade size and shape that had been used to decapitate the couple holding hands on the pavement nearby - something incredibly thin - when he caught sight of a figure that was becoming more and more familiar. “Sherlock,” he called over, cutting off Anderson’s rather creative theorizing. Anderson really should take up writing, John had frequently thought. He certainly could come up with the most extreme plots and conspiracies.

“Yes?” It was said in the most bored of tones as the tall, slender man in the long black coat waved a hand in the general direction of their _au pair_. “Be observant, John.”

Ignoring Anderson’s “What?” Dr. John Watson looked over and caught Albert Tran’s eye across the distance. A nearby foot patrolman was keeping an eye on the boy, who was the only spectator this late at night.

Alright, observing. Bert was jiggling where he stood, neither panicked nor frightened. An excess of energy? Siger was not with him. Why not? Well, it was very late. John took a look at his mobile to note the time: about half eleven. Not kidnapped, or Bert would have contacted either Greg or the emergency number for Mycroft, and would be in a considerably worse state. Siger would be with Mrs. Hudson then. Something that Bert did not feel could wait until John and Sherlock returned to Baker Street. Of course, the thought that either of them would return at any reasonable time during a case was laughable. Which, of course, was why Bert was here. How had he found the crime scene? John wondered.

Sherlock, it seemed, had solved the case while he was “chatting” - as the tall git called it - with Anderson. “Sharpened bin lid, Lestrade. You will find it in a skip within the next mile in a northern direction. Male murderer. Met them in a club and followed them. Staged the bodies after death. Not an employee of the club, but a relative of someone who works there.”

Donovan had joined John and Anderson, and the pair were staring at their nemesis with similar expressions of the disbelieving sort. “Wait.” Greg Lestrade held up a hand. “Wait one second. A bin lid? A sharpened bin lid? Sherlock, those things crumple.”

“Reinforced. I could look for myself, Detective Inspector. However I need to speak with my childcare provider who has been patiently waiting over there.” Without even looking while he spoke, Sherlock typed a text message with one hand and waved at Bert with the other.

That got Greg’s attention, and he examined Albert carefully. A snort echoed down the alley from Anderson, and Detective Sergeant Donovan expressed her own disbelief. “What? Childcare? That kid takes care of you, you mean? Watches you when John's not around?”

Sherlock shot her a piercing look, raised an eyebrow to John, and left them for Albert, followed by Greg Lestrade. John turned to Sally and said, “Bert is taking care of our son. Doesn’t look like an emergency.” He waited for the response, curious and expectant.

Sally shut her mouth so sharply John thought he heard a click. Anderson’s dropped open to catch flies. The woman that John might have found pretty, but for the expressions he’d seen on her face, said slowly, “You’re not a couple. You’re not gay. You’ve flirted with almost every female officer or clerk at NSY, and dated a fair few. And the Freak? He’s…nothing. Yeah, he gets off on the murders, but you keep saying it’s not sexual.”

John gave a sigh. “Things change. Not about him being sexually excited about murders. He's not like that at all. We are a couple. And we have a son. Together.” Turning to concentrate on the detective sergeant, he asked, “Sally, do you remember when you could translate what he was saying about the stable, when none of the rest of us could?”

Whatever comment she had been about to say was stopped. “Yeah,” the woman said warily.

“Imagine linking disparate items together just like that all the time. As a constant state of being. No way, or few of them anyway, to shut off that stream of information constantly calling for attention. The only way to deal with them is to pull them together, put the puzzle together. But then, who would you share it with? What would your life be like?” John knew where he wanted to go with this, what response he was trying for. He was not certain it was attainable.

“I get that he has no control of his mouth. He’s a sociopath,” Sally began, “but are you sure that a baby will -?”

John shook his head, interrupting, “Not that at all. Sherlock Holmes is one of the most controlled men I know. He chooses what to control, and drops what does not hold his interest. He’s been in tight control of his emotions since he was a child.

“Do you remember Jennifer Wilson?” John finished with the question.

“From _A Study in Pink_?” asked Anderson standing at the edge of the discussion, and trying to look as though he were an integral element in it.

Sally Donovan grudgingly admitted remembering, with, “He couldn’t understand why she’d still be grieving over her stillborn child.”

Nodding, John offered, “I have reason to believe he’d understand that better now.” He turned to look at Sherlock obviously explaining about the CCTV cameras to Bert. Well, it was obvious to John. So Bert must have been kidnapped by Mycroft, or something similar. He said softly, “Sometimes you don’t get to choose who you love.”

Looking up he realized they’d heard that last bit. Sally was glaring down at the ground. Anderson’s lips were clamped shut, and he appeared to be biting at the inside of his lip. He’d not meant their relationship, nor himself and Sherlock. But they’d take it however they would. Still, he went on, “Our son is a integral component in his life now. Sherlock’s. Not something he can just delete and forget about.”

Sherlock was on his way back over now, dragging Bert, and trailed by Greg Lestrade. “John,” the tall, brilliant man was beginning when John Watson, doctor and blogger, reached for that long art piece of a neck and pulled him down for a thorough kiss. John was not publicly demonstrative, and surprised himself, not to mention the others. The back of his mind was screaming at him, “Trust issues! Trust issues! Sherlock will not appreciate distraction at a crime scene!” John Watson gave that a good hard shove to the side and concentrated on what he was doing. When the kiss broke, his partner drew back slightly, gold and green and blue particolored eyes narrowed. Sherlock was examining John’s face. John’s blue eyes were locked on the pale ones of his flatmate, ignoring the voice that was still going on in the back of his head. Those beautiful eyes were coming closer, and then Sherlock carefully and obviously planted a kiss in return upon his lips. The kiss was good. John focused only on the man in front of him. 

There was a heavy silence around them. A bolt of near-soundless lightning had struck the onlookers, and they were rendered dumb. Sherlock pulled away, swallowed, then said “John!” urgently and quietly enough that only Lestrade, Donovan, Anderson, and Bert would hear: “Bert has an idea for using the CCTV cameras to prank Mycroft!”

There was a strangled noise from Greg. John was unsure whether Donovan’s and Anderson’s slack looks, lacking in cognizance, came from Sherlock’s words, or the kissing prior to that. Bert had a grin at the Detective Sergeant’s face, so something must have happened there earlier. "Sounds like fun!" John Watson replied.

…

Bert Tran rocked Siger, rubbing gently between those tiny shoulder blades through the cotton flannel creeper to bring up at burp. Noises from the sitting room traveled up the staircase. Dr. Watson - John, he’d said to call him when they’d helped each other over a particularly high bit of masonry earlier - was getting tea for them all. Sherlock - he had waved a hand and said much the same at the time - was excitedly telling Mrs. Hudson about their escapades, the near arrest by London’s finest, and their getaway over the rooftops back to 221B.

Different from home. Home was noisy and filled with chattering family members who stuck their noses into his business. The comfortableness he could hear down below contrasted with the wild ebullience of their race through the dark streets speckled with neon and traffic lights. There was the calmness of the expected pop of air from Siger. “Your fathers are crazy,” Bert said in _tiếng Việt_ , before “a good crazy.”

Bert had modified his phone to track Dr. Watson’s mobile via GPS. After all, Mr. Holmes had done the same with Albert’s mobile, so turnabout was fair play. The crime scene, a low-rent apartment building’s parking lot, was black with the night, the scene made stark by the police lights. A pretty, plainclothes officer with curly hair and coffee _au lait_ colored skin, approached him at the tape. “Move along,” she told him in no welcoming tone. Her English was extremely London. 

Bert gave her a winning smile that seemed to make her wary, rather than the expected flirty response. “I am here to see Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson,” he said respectfully.

Those eyes that would have been attractive if they weren’t so accusing, flicked over him, measuring, trying to read him. Bert’s face was polite, disingenuous, and the student was conscious of a need to get his hair cut. “One of the Freak’s Fans,” the woman said in dismissal. “He won’t speak to you.” And giving Albert advice, it seemed. “Tell your Fan Club that it would be better off leaving him well alone.”

“I’ll wait.” Albert’s politeness was an affability honed through years of working in his family’s restaurant in the face of sometimes unpleasant diners. Bert did not feel the need to give this person any further information.

“Suit yourself. Stay on your side of the tape, and don’t bother anyone!” The Detective Sergeant walked over to a uniformed policeman. Interesting. Apparently she was telling him to watch Bert, because the young pre-med student was under scrutiny after that. And the CCTV cameras were still pointed toward him, although some were watching Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson as well.

Later, the expression on the woman’s face, and the man next to her covered completely in a blue coverall, at his employer’s public snogging was something to see. Bert still kept a tight rein on his face. No reason to give away information to her, or anyone else. 

Now, though, Bert could grin down at the baby, “Extremely crazy,” he told the sleeping Siger, before placing the infant down on his back in the crib. Albert Tran covered his charge with the garish afghan at the bottom of the bed, closed the door quietly, and made his way down the steps to the fellowship in the sitting room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One more chapter for this piece, and then I will be off to Camp NaNoWriMo for April to work on a non-fan-fiction work from ages and ages ago.
> 
> There will be more in the way of stories about this group of people, because I have a ton of ideas written down. Just not certain when I'll be posting them, so keep an eye out!


	45. Roundabout

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A gathering of the clan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was a long one. Notes to follow.
> 
> Meanwhile, loads and loads of thanks to my beta, Lunamoth116.
> 
> Thank you all for reading! 
> 
> You can look me up at Camp NaNoWriMo as Cousinsue (NaNoWriMo as well). More later, but not for a month at least.

Siger was napping. A small amount of saliva dripped out the corner of that miniature cupid’s-bow mouth onto the flannel sheet of the cot. It moved, suckling at nothing for a moment. The shrouded eyes, grown from vivid blue to a heterochromia similar to Sherlock’s, were moving under those pale lids edged with long red lashes. Rapid eye movement. What dreams would a baby have? 

They’d made the decision to not cut their son’s hair yet, he and John. At two months it was longish, the tight curls pulled down by the length into waves that defied taming. In spite of the Watson genetic code, the boy was in the ninety-ninth percentile for height, and toward the bottom of average for weight. Unlike his father, Siger enjoyed eating. Or drinking, because he was still on formula, and had not shown the distinctive signs of being ready for solid food at this point. John was more polite to the elderly women who gave them advice in the park. Those old harridans insisted that the baby would sleep much better - Siger already slept through the night - and put on more weight if they gave him rice cereal, as they’d given their own children centuries ago. Well, strictly speaking they were not harridans to John or Albert. For the most part they were not keen on Sherlock.

Sherlock Holmes knelt on the bright-coloured hooked rug by the crib watching, his knees indenting along the illustrated ridge of a dragon’s back. This was not the “wake up wake up wake up” observation of a child waiting on a sibling’s nap. What Holmes was doing was consideration, sealing these moments of Siger away in his Mind Palace for enjoyment later. Aside from the occasional suckling, Siger’s breathing was a soft huffing out into the air above him, the crocheted travesty of a baby afghan that “Aunt Harriet” had made draped over the small body, moving up and down with each breath. Sherlock could breathe in the smell of baby from where he was kneeling, oily white salve in the changed diaper, the milky taste in the air of formula, and the scent of home that was his son.

Now was not the moment for plans, for the future. This time was given over wholly to the present, as the earlier feeding had been. Sherlock’s arms filled with the enormity of the miniscule bundle of blood and bones and flesh, his own get, and all the roads that lay open before them. When Sherlock had held Redbeard, all those long years ago, it was not with a sense of responsibility. As much as Sherlock had - to be honest - loved Redbeard, a baby was enormously different from a dog in all the ways that mattered.

And Sherlock felt a good deal of sentiment for this particular offspring. Siger Holmes, his son. Sounds filtered up the stairs from John, standing at the bottom and debating disturbing them. The mobile in Sherlock’s pocket buzzed against his hip. “What are you doing up there? Siger’s asleep, yeah?” the text read.

“Observing. SH.”

Without taking his eyes from the sleeping infant, Sherlock could see John shaking his head through the vision of his mind’s eye. A short time later the aroma of soup traveled up to the upstairs bedroom, unexpectedly luring the tall, thin man down to join his partner.

…

Harriet Watson settled the bundled result of her egg and Sherlock’s sperm into arms that were slightly shaky. Not from booze, thank you. “Oh, God, John, he’s beautiful!” It had given her a moment of pleasure to notice that Siger was wrapped in the afghan she’d knit for him. “I know women who would kill for that red hair!” That received an interested look from her brother’s odd partner. “Not literally, Sherlock,” she added.

Losing interest, the crazy man went back to whatever was preserved on the slide attached to the microscope tray. John was smiling down at her though, as he brought them his ever-present comfort of tea and some of the currant rocks from Aunt Harriet’s recipe. Her brother pulled some of the wraps to allow Siger’s hand out, the tiny digits grasping toward the bright gold tail of hair lying across Harry Watson’s shoulder. “Try the biscuits, Harry! None for Siger, of course. Not yet, anyway.” It had been a long time since Harry had seen John so relaxed, so happy.

Siger was examining her, pulling at the bright strands of hair that he had managed to capture. “You are the luckiest man in the world, John.” There was regret, a little bit of yearning in her lowered voice. It wouldn’t do to let Holmes hear her say it.

John understood. He’d given a quick shift of his eyes, a miniscule smile over to the man Harry had never honestly expected him to call “partner”. John had been so solidly a skirt chaser. Not in the aggressive manner of someone desperately trying to prove his sexuality. More a cheery enjoyment of the female form and personality. A nod, then, and a short movement of her brother’s arms, as though he were holding back from reaching for the baby. Harry bounced her nephew, never really her son, a bit. John was going on, “Don’t forget his christening, Harry. Next Sunday at Saint Cyprian’s.” That was John. Still a churchgoer.

“I’ll be there. May I bring Clara?” Harry wondered what her ex would think about the baby.

John paused with his cup almost to his lips. “Clara? Are you still in touch? Of course she’s welcome!”

Harry flashed him a wry grin. “Twelve steps, John. We’re working on becoming friends again.”

A grunt from the man perched at the microscope, but when further comment was withheld, they went back to their own conversation. “It will be good to see her,” John said, and passed the biscuit plate.

…

“Me?” Dr. Molly Hooper bleated. “Why me?”

Sherlock took in the gobsmacked expression, the new pearl earrings worn expressly for her fiancé, Tom, and the pile of current files in the crook of her arm. Sherlock pierced the pathologist with a look. “Molly, you have held my life in your hand. Who else would I ask?”

The smaller, formerly mousy woman swallowed hard. “I would be pleased to be Siger’s godmother, Sherlock. I’m just surprised that you’re having him baptised. I thought...” Then a pause for her slow mental processes - well, relatively slow - to catch up. “You’re not religious.”

“I have yet to see any proof of the existence of any of the higher beings listed to date. John, however, feels strongly about the issue. Therefore, I would like you to attend us on Sunday. Saint Cyprian’s. John tells me there is relatively little to do regarding the ceremony. As godparent or sponsor, your job is to ensure that John is doing his duty in providing religious training for Siger. If he fails, you take it on. Mrs. Hudson has found a caterer for a small meal at Baker Street afterward.” And there it had all been said quickly. Logical and to the point.

He was startled to see the fondness in the smile this woman directed toward him. “Thank you for asking me, Sherlock.” 

“Hm. You are welcome, Molly.”

…

John was still amazed at how relaxed he was with the idea of Sherlock taking Siger to the zoo without him. Not jealous in the least - well, perhaps slightly envious. But it was good to be able to watch the match with Greg, drink a bit, and enjoy his first fairly ordinary Saturday since before attending Siger’s birth at the Initiative.

Greg set down a pint of black and tan in front of John, and lifted his own. “I have to tell you, mate, that I was expecting to get a 999 call the entire time you were in Glasgow. Either an explosion, a kidnapping, or a noise complaint.”

The blond doctor nodded in agreement. “Things have been relatively quiet. Sherlock spent the entire time decoding a box of blackmail notes from a colleague in Venezuela.” Taking his own drink, he added, “Alice Brown says that he was talking to me and to Siger the entire time. Siger was at least present. He was watching his daft _père_ from the swing. She, Mrs. Hudson, and Bert all checked on them. No worries. Alice asked him - Sherlock, not Siger - if he was aware I was at the medical conference.”

That got a laugh. “What did he say?”

“‘John illuminates the world from wherever he may be, Alice. Would you please see that we have the required permits to attend the workshop on new arson accelerant items that Lestrade saw fit to extend us an invitation?’” John drew out his words, raising a sand-coloured eyebrow in imitation of his partner’s expression when correcting impertinence. 

More laughter. Greg Lestrade’s grin was easy as he kept an eye on the telly and an ear on what John was telling him about the medical conference. “I was expecting to speak to a small room, Greg. Sherlock was right. He said they specifically wanted me as some kind of draw. The doctors in the audience listened and asked questions about trauma in war time, and then I ended up giving a separate talk that evening on what medical expectations were involved in working with Sherlock Holmes. Apparently word got out about the list of rules London’s medical professionals have for how to deal with him during a case. Since some of the London Emergency Medical Technicians were attending, they put the three of us up on a dais and allowed questions from the audience.”

That brought the Detective Inspector’s attention around to focus totally on the man sitting beside him, drinking beer with a smug little smile. “I don’t know, John. That sounds like hell to me!”

John giggled. “I got to know the EMTs better, in any case. One of their rules is ‘make sure police are always at the scene.’”

“Which makes a lot of sense,” muttered Greg.

“They called you -” John was having trouble getting the words out over the laughter “- the Sherlock Whisperer. Your name is on the list of rules.”

“Bloody hell!” That was loud, before a more reasonable tone was attained. “I should think that would be you, wouldn’t it?”

John snickered. “Nope.” There was an accent on the “p”. “That was from before my time. When he was loose on the streets without me.”

They were getting odd looks from the regulars at the pub. Talk turned back to the match they were supposedly watching. John waited to invite Greg to the christening until after John’s team had solidly lost, and John was paying off the lost bet. “Greg, Siger is being baptised tomorrow. I’d like if you would stand for him as godfather. I know we’d talked about it before.”

An enormous grin. “Yeah! I have off. I’ll be there. When and where?” 

“Saint Cyprian’s. Ten A.M. Sherlock’s supposed to notify Mycroft, but you might want to check and make sure he let his brother know about it.” John was still uncertain about the niceties when your good friend was dating your partner’s brother. It never hurt to double-check though, and better to have Greg make sure Mycroft was there, rather than John.

…

Martha Hudson surveyed 221B with satisfaction. There had not been a hitch to Siger’s christening, in spite of a great deal of nervous attention focused on his father. She doubted her lodger had ever set foot inside that church. She knew he’d not attended with John, though she’d been once or twice with the doctor. Martha Hudson preferred Saint Mary’s. 

Sherlock had stood at the font holding the baby. Siger’s father looked immaculate in a dark suit with a green shirt. Siger was wearing a matching creeper - green, not black - under his christening gown. Harry told them all that the white lacy gown had been worn by both of the Watson siblings in their time. Siger, looking attentively at everything except the minister, had made a fuss when the water touched those red curls. Shocked surprise had given way to a horrified screech, and shortly thereafter the baby was back drooling upon Sherlock’s elegant shoulder. Otherwise, things had gone quite well at Saint Cyprian’s.

Now the small party was filling up the sitting room of 221B, none of them actually sitting. Molly Hooper and her Tom were chatting with John’s sister and a woman introduced as “Clara”. Mycroft Holmes stood to the side speaking quietly into Siger’s ear as he bounced the baby on his expensively suited arm. Martha Hudson had an idea that Mycroft was divulging all of their secrets to the child, or at the very least something about each of them he found amusing, going by Mycroft’s slight smile. It looked as though Siger was listening, peering at each person in turn.

Alice Brown, dressed nicely in a floral shirtwaister, kept an eye on the caterers and the single waiter passing food and drink to the crowd. A manly group consisting of John, the detective inspector, a confused-looking young man Lestrade had introduced as “Dimmock”, and Bert took up space by the kitchen doorway, catching up food and drink like chattery locusts. Sherlock had been cornered by Angelo and his wife, who were describing their children’s baptisms with enthusiasm. Sherlock was being oddly patient in listening. Martha wondered why, until she caught John using an eyebrow to communicate with his flatmate over Angelo’s shoulder.

All in all, a lovely party. Though Martha kept a weather eye on Sherlock. Just in case.

…

“The baby stays with Mrs. Hudson?” Dimmock asked. “I had thought you’d be bringing him to the crime scenes. Was worried about that, actually.” They were standing together now, near the doorway while Lestrade said his goodbyes.

“Mirror neurons,” Sherlock said absently. He was examining crime scene photos that Dimmock had brought along.

“Mirror neurons.” It was repeated, but with no recognition.

Sherlock stopped. He looked directly at the young Detective Inspector. “Infants mirror what they see from the faces around them. They learn physically simply from visual exposure to those faces. I have no intention of having the child pick up Anderson’s stupidity, nor Donovan’s discontent. He will join us when he is old enough.”

“Do you really think you can protect a child from everything bad?” Dimmock was not being rude. Sherlock could tell that he was genuinely curious.

“Not everything.” Here he was speaking to the man in what John termed “normal” conversation. “It would not be appropriate. We are teaching him coping mechanisms so that he will learn from the events that surround him, and from his mistakes.

“Now, if you find a warehouse in the area we discussed, nominally abandoned, you might find the men who killed those derelicts before they realize their mistake. The latest man’s instrument, a guitar, will be hidden. He was careful with it and wouldn’t have wanted anyone to steal or touch his means of livelihood, he was a busker, while he was out grubbing through bins for supper. An Asian gang. There is an enormous illegal market for black bear parts, and the hairs in his cuffs pointed to that. Different from dog hair.”

For Sherlock Holmes, this was polite, enormously so, even while talking shop after a baptism. Detective Inspector Dimmock found himself thanking the man as he pulled out a mobile to deliver new instructions to his men still on duty. 

…

Mycroft Holmes stayed after the others had left. Sitting now, Siger safely ensconced on his brother’s lap, the minor government official described a meeting that had occurred earlier.

...

The lawyer’s tailored suit was a fine charcoal grey with faint striping. Knowing that he looked well in it increased the confidence that put most of the troglodytes he faced each day on the wrong foot. “Mr. Smith -” his voice was pleasant, neutral; after all, he was the gatherer of information, not a prosecuting counsel “- you asked to speak to me?”

And of course, Smith’s own legal counsel chose to speak for him. “ _Dr._ -” that title was emphasized “- Smith wishes to make a deal.”

Waving at the woman to get on with it, the legal representative for the British Government took in the slight smirk on the most unattractive Dr. Smith’s face. The man believed he held the upper hand. Smith hadn’t moved a muscle in his face at being addressed as Mr. Smith, which everyone in contact with the man had received direction to do. The woman who represented Smith had a good reputation, but seemed tired and possibly annoyed, though she hid it well. “My client,” she said evenly with an also pleasant tone, “speculates that there might be more information on his former superior, James Moriarty, regarding The Initiative in a secure facility. This includes Moriarty’s plans for the babies involved. Dr. Smith is willing to give directions to the cache, as well as instructions for accessing the materials. In return, the Commonwealth will drop certain charges.”

Lawyer that he was, the man in the charcoal-grey suit did not snort at the idea. He assumed that Smith would ask to bargain down the murder charge. That charge had the greatest potential for serving time at Her Majesty’s pleasure, and was the most usual accusation disputed. In this case it was the one with the largest penalty and most evidence present against the accused. It was the single charge that was not going to go away. 

Listening to the bargain being offered, his mind stopped, refocused. Well. That presented possibilities.

…

Mycroft Holmes gave the socially acceptable smile to his personal assistant as she sent him several flagged files from her BlackBerry. She did not look up, but he knew she’d received the indication of his approval. Turning his attention to the items that had passed through her screening, he noticed the note from the lawyer handling Culverton Smith’s case. Interesting. 

…

“He wants what?” John Watson had finished serving Mycroft and started sipping his own tea, and although the elder Holmes had hoped for a spit-take, the most he received was the doctor’s loss, for a second, of his grip on his RAMC mug.

“Dr. Smith -” Mycroft’s emphasis on the title was ironic “- will turn over all files on James Moriarty’s plans for the children created by The Initiative if the Crown will drop the charges of practicing medicine without license.”

Dr. Watson looked down at the mug now clenched firmly in his right hand, considered taking a sip, then placed the ceramic container down firmly but carefully on the end table beside him. The curse muttered under his breath was horrific, before the blond haired man looked up into Mycroft’s eyes and asked, “That’s all he wants? I would have thought he’d ask for the murder charge to be dropped.”

Mycroft opened his eyes, raising his auburn eyebrows in mock innocence. “He also wishes to be addressed as ‘Dr. Smith’, rather than the appellation of ‘Mr’.”

Ah, good. He had made John laugh. Mycroft Holmes tipped the smallest of smiles toward his brother’s chosen partner in life. Sherlock was looking startled, but there was understanding in his expression. His younger brother said, “He’s staying in prison to prevent his eventual murder by Moriarty’s former employees, seeking to make a name for themselves.”

“Indeed,” Mycroft nodded. “His other request is for a nice secure cell.”

…

John lay in bed listening through the monitor to Sherlock performing a last feeding for Siger before putting him in the cot for the night. It was late, but not desperately so, and the baby had been so good with all the fuss today. There had been a cranky moment at half seven, before the last of their guests (Mycroft) had gone, leaving John and Sherlock to a supper of takeaway curry while Siger stared from a blanket on the floor at something under the couch that neither of the adults could see. Sherlock had checked. After that came the calming effects of Sherlock’s violin. 

“Faith is the gift of God to his people.” John replayed the opening words of the service in his head. The entire order of service for baptism was geared toward acknowledgment of responsibilities, a list of expected behavior really, with a look to the future of a young life. John had not thought much about this point in his life, raising children. Truthfully, he’d expected to be married before having a child, and that it would be to a woman of similar viewpoints as far as religion was concerned. The whole idea of children had been an airy waving of the hand, with no certainty or planning. Now, here John was. Not married. Not exactly. Spoken for though. Claimed. Responsible. 

Claimed by Sherlock and Siger. Responsible for them, and to them. That deep voice that was so familiar now interrupted his rumination. “You’re thinking very loudly, John. I can’t think either of us will sleep with all that noise.”

A smile was offered as the tall, thin git began to remove his dress clothing, still relatively neat after the long day. “I was thinking,” John paused at Sherlock’s “Obviously”, then continued, “about the people who joined us at the church today. Our people. Our family. Who are pleased to help us raise Siger. Compared to half the women in processing at the Met who seem to think that I’m going to give up the foolishness of loving you if I find the right woman.”

Silence. A loud silence. John looked up to Sherlock standing and staring at him, pale eyes wide, tailored trousers hanging from a slender hand, leather and bronze belt in the other. Understanding took John a while. “You did know that?” John asked his partner in surprise.

“I know that you love Siger.” That was said slowly. “And that most of the women at the Met, aside from Donovan, flirt with you. Constantly. Strenuously.”

John’s mouth quirked up. “Without you there would be no Siger, Sherlock.”

“Sex -” the tall man was working his way through a puzzle of words “- is not love.”

“No,” John agreed. “No, it isn’t. But it can be an expression of it.”

“Is it, then? Those women tempting you…”

“Trying to, anyway. Constantly. Strenuously. Not much interest on my part. None here.” John tapped his head. “None here.” The blunt, competent fingers tapped the tee shirted chest over his heart. “And not here.” A hand waved generally over the nether regions covered by boxers, sheet and quilt. “I mean, I can still appreciate the female form, Sherlock. But I’m not moved to action. I already have a permanent and full-time lover.”

An elegant dark brow raised as Sherlock posited a statement that was more than half-question: “‘Three Continents’ Watson is satisfied to remain with a single conquest.”

John sat up, coverings sliding down to his lap, and fixed his partner with bright blue eyes, and a surprisingly relaxed grin. “Why would I be interested in those little sparks for warmth, when I have such a bonfire blazing for me?”

“A bonfire? Not a cold machine?” The usually deep voice was higher pitched and quiet.

“I have been wrong from time to time Sherlock, as you do let me know often enough. You are not a machine.” John opened the covers in invitation. “You are a flame, bright and illuminating. Warming. Come to bed.”

Sherlock said nothing. He dropped the trousers and belt, and began to undo the buttons on his shirt cuffs, before pulling the green shirt uncharacteristically, sloppily, over his head. Climbing into their bed, the tall, dark-haired man slipped long arms around that solid waist as his lover pulled the covers over them and relaxed into the arms of his partner. “You know that I may never be able to say it back, John.”

The blond moved closer, pressed tight against the taller man, and breathed in contentedly. “You said it first, Sherlock. Reasons of sentiment.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A story about medical professionals, and their treatment of Sherlock (and John).  
> http://archiveofourown.org/works/1199257/chapters/2448067
> 
> Saint Cyprian’s is a C of E church off of Bakers Street. There’s also Saint Mary’s, which has a nifty website, but I was trying not to get too obsessive with my research. So errors on the whole schedule of the church and baptisms and all, those are mine.


End file.
